Midnight's Destiny
by darcyfarrow
Summary: How a cat saved a family, a romance and a kingdom. AU: spinner!Rumple discovers friendship, love and courage when he adopts an unwanted cat. Eventual Rumbelle, RaineFire. This story hasn't been nominated for any awards, but I hope you'll read it anyway, because it's the most emotionally truthful story I've written.
1. Present Day

_A/N. This story is dedicated to my son, a soldier; Bouncer, who kept on purring even as cancer overtook him; and Mischief, who's enabled me to laugh again._

* * *

Rumple sits in his rocking chair (acquired in a deal with a furniture maker) before a crackling fire. Outside rain is falling, but his house is tight and warm. A kettle is heating on the brand-new stove in the new extension he's had built on his house. There's a proper bed in that extension, so Bae has a comfortable place to sleep when he comes to visit, and a curtained bed in the corner of this part of the house. It's replaced the pallet that Rumple slept on most of his life, and it's done wonders for his damaged ankle.

The rain doesn't bother him. He welcomes it; his garden is thriving, planted with some exotic foods, the seeds for which Bae carried back from King Maurice's castle. When he harvests, he will trade most of his produce to his neighbors in exchange for their more ordinary vegetables, potatoes and parsnips and the like. He eats pretty well (though not as well as the nobles do); he has a pair of solid boots, a heavy cloak, three unstained tunics and three hole-free pairs of trousers; he has nine books and a fishing pole and all the tools he needs to maintain his house. When the kettle boils he will have four canisters of tea to choose from, along with a slice of white bread. He has a seventeen-year-old son who's already making a good living in the King's Home Guard, and he has three friends he can count on, one of whom has just left.

And he has a cat. A ten-year-old black cat that sits in his lap each evening. They're two friends growing old together as their children are out changing the world, Rumple likes to muse with his friend Fort. The cat sleeps most of the time these days. He allows it; she's more than earned it.

He pets her in a single stroke from head to tail. That's how he's always rewarded her, never with table scraps. Never, because she had a job to do, clearing out the mice in the neighborhood. Never, until three weeks ago.

And now he would gladly get down on his knees with a slice of his best mutton between his fingers, if he could get her to eat that way. He'd do it gladly and has, but to no avail. Not that she won't try. She'll cock her head and stare at the tidbit, she'll take a hesitant step forward, but then she sits down again and makes a little cry. She seems to think she's disappointing him.

In the beginning of her illness, she retreated to the clothes cupboard where she had birthed her babies, five litters over her long lifetime. She'd sleep in the dark space for hours on end. He thought nothing of it: she was just aging, like he was.

After a few days he noticed she never went out hunting any more, and _that_ alarmed him. Midnight was the acknowledged Artemis of the Frontlands, the hunting queen of cats. She'd starve if she didn't hunt, and Bae would never forgive him if that happened. He'd never forgive himself. So he knelt at the cupboard and coaxed her out with chunks of mutton, fish or chicken. She crept out, studied the first chunk, then when her confusion faded she accepted it and crept back into the cupboard to eat. She seemed embarrassed. He chopped up more raw meat and left it in a bowl in the cupboard. When he came back in the morning, he counted the chunks: she'd taken only one more.

So he chopped the meat finer and cooked it, and another day passed with a full bowl. On the third day he sat on the floor, lifted her out of the cupboard, and cuddled her on his lap while he held a bite of chicken within reach of her mouth. Perhaps she was blind and that was why she hadn't gone hunting. Perhaps she couldn't smell any more and that was why she hadn't taken from the bowl. So he held the tidbit to her mouth. She tried, cocking her head and sniffing. Then she lowered her head with a throaty meow. He laid the meat aside and petted her as she lowered her head to his knee and fell asleep. Hours later, he paid for the privilege of sitting on the floor when he tried to stand up again and his ankle gave out.

They continued on this way, him feeding and watering her by hand, her taking an occasional bite just to please him. She'd toss her head as she chewed, and that led him to wonder if she had a tooth problem. He called in Fort, a farmer who knew more about "dosin'" animals than anyone in the village. While the cat whimpered on Rumple's lap, Fort pried her mouth open and peered inside, with Morraine holding a candle high to give him light.

Fort's inspection took a long time. When he withdrew and Morraine blew out the candle, Rumple asked, "A tooth?"

Fort shook his head. "She's lost a tooth, but that ain't the problem." He glanced at Morraine. "Maybe this ain't for young gals to hear."

"I love this cat," Morraine said stubbornly.

"She stays. What is it, Fort?"

"It's her tongue. I seen this before on one of my goats. The tongue's rotten."

"What does that mean?"

"It means she's dyin'. You been noticin' the droolin'? It hurts when she swallows."

"We'll cut it out. Get a sharp knife and cut out the part of the tongue that's rotten." But even as he suggested it, Rumple knew it was an awful idea.

"Rum. . . .the rot's spreading through her mouth. Won't be much longer now. Only thing is, starvin' and thirst will take her down before the rot will." Though a big man, Fort has a soft heart that he seldom lets others see. He showed it now, and not just because he sympathized with Rumple. He reached out and scratched the cat's ears. He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. "She did her work, Rum. Let her go."

"Not yet." Rumple shook his head fiercely. "Not yet."

Fort clasped a hand to Rumple's shoulder. "When you're ready." He walked slowly out into the morning. Morraine remained long enough to prepare a cup of tea and a plate of bread and cheese for Rumple, then she bade him a soft goodbye.

He's been sitting in his rocking chair ever since. His tea's gone cold and the bread is stale, but it doesn't seem right to eat when his old friend can't.

The sicker she gets, the more she purrs. He's learned that's a false hope. Or maybe it's her thank you.

There are other cats in the village, now. He could go out tomorrow and for a copper purchase one of her descendants, a black one or a white one or a yellow one. Or Bae could bring one home from the castle on his next visit. There are other cats, but none like Midnight.

"Not yet," he says to her. "Stay until Bae can come home and say goodbye."

But a pool of saliva has formed on his knee and he can feel only bones beneath her fur, which is matted. She used to take such pride in keeping herself clean. She's starving, yet her eyes are bright and she purrs and sometimes she gets bursts of energy that enable her to leap onto chairs, like the old days. And she's trying so hard, fighting the illness just as fiercely as she's battled mice all her life, and she deserves to live.

He doesn't know the right thing to do.


	2. Ten Years Earlier

**10 Years Earlier**

The weaver casts a furtive glance about, then, determining they are alone in the small shop off the castle kitchen, he draws the spinner by the sleeve (cloth faded and stained, the weaver notes, no doubt old, but remarkably sturdy and unfrayed, for all the use no doubt gone through) deeper inside and closes the door. "Here," the weaver holds up a copper between his callused thumb and forefinger.

The spinner looks him in the feet, not the eyes, never the eyes, as he takes the coin and passes over a burlap bag full of spools of colorful yarn and thread. The pay is nowhere near enough, not for the number of spools and certainly not for the quality of the thread, deceptively strong for all its delicacy. But the spinner makes no comment, just turns away, hand pushing against the door. "Wait."

The spinner waits but doesn't turn around. He's expecting instructions concerning the next purchase—hoping for instructions, because that means there will be a next purchase, and though this copper isn't a fair price, it's the best he can expect. No one will pay what his work is worth, because of who he is. So many weavers won't buy from him at all; those who do, like King Maurice's man, deal with him only in private and underpay him because they can or because if they get caught buying from him, they can claim the underpaying as a form of insult. The Runner must be kept in his proper place, an example for other cowards, cripples and sick ones: forever punished, permitted to live but just barely.

But the quality of his work—the weaver has a fine eye for the cloth that Rumplestiltskin's thread produces, and he's well paid and well praised for it. Maurice and his family are admired in every land they visit for their beautiful clothes, and the royal weaver and the royal tailor receive due credit. Only the weaver and the tailor know the truth of where the thread comes from: the weaver's wife keeps a wheel and drop spindles in their shop, where she can be seen through the open doorway working diligently while the sun shines—but at night, her husband carries sacks bearing the products of her labors into a tavern, where he sells them to a lesser weaver. The royal weaver then uses Rumplestiltskin's thread for the royal family's finery, while the thread made by the weaver's wife eventually clothes the peasantry.

For all his deceptions, the royal weaver is not a dishonest man. He dare not pay Rumplestiltskin a fair price—should he get caught buying from The Runner, he will call it an act of charity—but he feels guilty nonetheless, and so along with a copper, he often gives The Runner "gifts," bits of irregular cloth and a loaf of bread made by his wife (an untalented spinster she may be, but she's a skilled baker, and she often bakes extra for The Runner, because she too feels guilty). Sometimes there's a wheel of cheese or a sack of fruit that the royal cooks have bestowed upon the weaver in return for the cloth he makes for them.

So as Rumplestiltskin waits, back turned, eyes fixed on the wooden floor, he dares to hope for a "gift" or two to take home to Bae. The weaver does not disappoint. He empties the sack Rumplestiltskin brought the thread in and slips a bundle of cloth inside. It was improperly dyed, so it's not fit for anyone in the castle to wear, but it will make two new tunics for Bae. Rumplestiltskin ducks his head in a grateful nod and once again starts to leave when a ball of black fur pounces upon his boot. The Runner stands stock still until he figures out what's attacked him, then he raises his foot carefully to dislodge the kitten. When he sets his foot down again, the cat is shaking her head in frustration at the escape of her prey, but she quickly recovers and sharpens her claws on Rumplestiltskin's walking stick.

Rumplestiltskin bends to move the cat aside. "Apologies," he mumbles to the weaver, for cats are a commodity, even in castles. He attempts to return the cat to her presumed owner, but the weaver doesn't reach out for her. "She likes you," the weaver observes. "She's a good mouser, but a nuisance, always underfoot, getting into the meat. We have too many cats here. Not enough mice to keep them fed."

Rumplestiltskin can feel the truth of that as the cat purrs in his hand: she weighs no more than a spool of thread.

Then the weaver admits, "Besides, people have funny ideas about black cats. Some folks believe they're evil spirits or witches' familiars."

The hair at his nape prickles as Rumple mutters, stroking the sleek fur, "How could anyone think such horrible things of such a tiny creature?" He sets her down gently.

"Why don't you keep her?" the weaver invites abruptly. "She's worth next to nothing here, but perhaps she'd be a help to you. Or you could sell her to a farmer or a tavern keeper."

Rumplestiltskin keeps his head bent so the weaver can't see that his eyes have lit up. A good mouser would indeed be a help, and not just in protecting food supplies; the only child of the town coward has too few companions. Rumplestiltskin pushes the door open and hobbles out, and the cat follows, clearly having claimed him as her property. He nods once again to the weaver. "My thanks."

It's something he's never experienced before, Rumplestiltskin realizes as he makes the two-day journey home, along stripped-down fields and rutted farm-to-market roads, and, finally, a goat path that cuts through hills buttressing the village in which he and Bae live. The cat rides his shoulder for some of the trip; other times, she sleeps in a blanket that Rumple brought along to sleep in. He has fashioned a sling of it so she can sleep against his chest, like Bae used to, before he learned to crawl. His growing relationship with the animal is unlike any other he's ever known, because the cat is completely independent of him. When they stop to rest, she dashes off on her own, reappearing at his heels when he resumes his journey and hopping aboard when he crouches to offer his shoulder or the sling. She licks her paws and washes her whiskers before purring herself to sleep, and from this he knows she found food and water on her little foray and needs nothing he has to offer except his companionship. She seems to enjoy the sound of his voice, so he tells her stories and sings her songs, and makes promises of a cushion at the hearth, plenty of mice for the plucking in the fields behind the village, and plenty of attention from a lonely seven-year-old whose mother ran out on him a year ago. But he knows these things are not necessities for her, merely luxuries, and she will come and go as she pleases. She may have decided for convenience's sake to live among humans, but her spirit remains wild, and if she chooses to make her home in his hovel, it doesn't mean she is surrendering her freedom.

It will be an interesting relationship.

He hears Bae's call well before he crests the hill that leads into the nameless village. Although Bae enjoys sleeping over at the neighbors' whenever Rumple goes to market, the boy, unlike other seven-year-olds, frets from the moment his father leaves; they both know Rumple might not make it back again. He's been robbed more times than Bae can count, and beaten just a few times less, but today he strides into town in triumph. Their mouths stained with berry juice, Bae and his friend Morraine abandon their picking pails, leaving them for Morraine's mother to rescue, and charge up the hill to form a victory parade. "What's that?" Bae demands, pointing at the ball of fur perched on Rumple's shoulder.

"This is a cat," Rumple explains, for Bae has never seen a cat before, only dogs, and only working dogs, at that: sheep herders and noblemen's hunting hounds. "Here." Rumple plucks the cat from his shoulder and places it on Bae's. "You can stroke her fur. She likes that."

"She's soft," says Morraine, joining in on the petting. "What does she do?" For in this poor village, all domesticated animals serve a purpose.

"She catches mice," Rumple says. "And someday, when she's grown, she'll have babies. When they're grown, she'll teach them to catch mice too."

"She'll be a blessing then," observes Morraine's mother, coming up the hill. "Welcome home, Rumplestiltskin."

"Thank you, Gretchen. I hope Bae was no trouble?"

"On the contrary." Gretchen smiles as she ruffles Bae's hair (newly trimmed, Rumple notices). "He worked in the fields with Lucas and helped me sheer the goats."

"And me and Morraine washed the dog with lye soap. That kills the fleas," Bae announces, proud that he knows something his father doesn't.

At the bottom of the hill, the little troop pauses before Gretchen and Lucas' wattle and daub hut, just a few yards north of Rumplestiltskin's. Mouth-watering odors float from the entranceway of the first house, but that is not out of the ordinary: Gretchen is a skilled cook and gardener and Lucas, a good provider. They could move into a better house, but Lucas had built this one with his own hands and the help of his neighbors, including a much younger Rumplestiltskin, in the days before the Ogre War. Besides, like most of his neighbors, Lucas invests any extra income into his business, in his case, goats. Like most of his neighbors, Lucas has promised that his wife will someday have finer things, once they've reached financial security.

Rumplestiltskin had made such promises to his wife, too. When he had one.

"The children and I have a pot of stew warming on your hearth," Gretchen says. "I thought you might be too tired to cook, after such a long walk."

"Thank you." Rumple ducks his head to hide behind his hair. Such kindnesses come to him rarely these days, and he is embarrassed that he has so little to offer in return. As subtly as he can manage, he slides a hand into his pouch and it latches onto a small sack of walnuts that he picked on his way home. He'd meant to crush them and sprinkle them on greens for tonight's meal, but he presents the sack, along with a shy smile, to Gretchen. "For you."

"Thank you." She calls Morraine away from the kitten and into the house. "Time to set the table, daughter. Congratulations, Rumple, on a successful trip." She nods at the kitten before taking Morraine under her arm and going inside.

"Time for our supper, too." Rumple urges Bae to precede him into their home. Two bowls, two knives and two spoons have already been set out on the little table, along with a half-loaf of rye bread, already sliced, and a little ceramic pot of honey, the last of a treat Rumple had managed to buy on his last trip to the city. There are less than two spoonsful left, but it will make a nice finish to a hearty bowl of Gretchen's pottage.

He smiles down at his son, squeezing the boy's shoulder, and Bae smiles up at him. Bae knows it's impolite to brag, but his face shines with the expectation of praise, knowing it will come; his father is never negligent in that regard. "Thank you, son, for setting the table and helping Gretchen cook."

Bae nods then, satisfied, and slides onto the bench at the table with the kitten on his lap. When his father's mouth purses, he hastily explains, "I washed my hands before you came." He frowns momentarily. "And Gretchen made me take a bath last night."

"That's the bathing-est woman I ever met," Rumple chuckles, leaning his walking stick against the table and hobbling over to the hearth.

"Morraine says she makes her take a bath every Saturday."

Rumple lifts the lid from the iron pot and stirs the contents with a long-handled wooden spoon. He's surprised by the scent that rises from the pot, and resting a hand against the stones for balance, he leans forward to sniff at the sample he's scooped up. "Rabbit!" He exclaims, then takes a taste to affirm his guess. It's been seven months since he and Bae last feasted on meat.

"Lucas went hunting," Bae reports. "He had good luck."

"I'd say we had good luck too, to have friends like them." Rumple wiggles his fingers, a signal to Bae that the stew is ready, and Bae carries over the two bowls. Rumple fills them halfway, careful not to spill, then he watches as Bae carries them back to the table. His brow creases as his eyes fall upon the black kitten, who's leapt onto the table and has poked her paw into the honey.

"Bae. . . ."

"Sorry, Papa." Bae sets the bowls down with a rattle and in one swoop transports the cat to the floor.

"She's a baby and babies have to learn, but not at the expense of our meal," Rumple grumbles. "She must learn she's not allowed on the table."

"I'll teach her," Bae vows, but his attention is fixed on the stew; his hand is already filled with a spoon.

Rumple returns to the table and sits down, then nods, signaling Bae it's time to eat. As Bae shovels in a mouthful, then drizzles honey onto a slice of bread, Rumple says, "I mean it, son. This cat may be entertaining, but she also has a job to do, as we all do, and she must learn it."

"Wwmmph?" asks Bae, but his words are indecipherable over the mouthful of potato.

"Don't speak with your mouth full. Her job—not just her job, her destiny—is to catch mice. You know how much damage mice cause to our food supply and the fleece; they also spread sickness. So you see, her work will be very important to us and we must not interfere with it. For her to be a good hunter, she must be hungry. That means we must not feed her. We will provide her with clean water and a warm place by the hearth to sleep, and we will protect her from dogs and sheep and goats; we will tend her injuries and praise her for good hunts, but we will not distract her from her work by feeding her. Do you understand, Bae?"

"Yes, Papa." The boy turns eyes of new respect upon the tiny ball of fur sitting stiffly on the rug, staring longingly at the filled spoon in his hand. "Maybe we should keep her outside while we eat." Bae's voice reveals his reluctance, but he sets his spoon down. "If I put her out, will she run away?"

"I don't know much about cats. I know dogs can find their way home easily." Rumple peers at the kitten as if a close look will inform him of her level of intelligence and loyalty, but he can't read her. Years later, he thinks back on this moment and chuckles, because he never does learn to read her. "Maybe we should leave her inside at night until she's big enough to protect herself from predators."

Bae beams, then squelches his grin when his father says grimly, "But she must be punished every time she jumps onto the table."

"She's so small. How do we punish her?"

Again Rumple isn't sure of the correct answer; he's seen sheepdogs corrected in a variety of ways, some of them ineffective, some of them, in his opinion, inhumane. "Not with hitting," he decides. "Never with hitting." And Bae looks relieved. "A sharp 'No!' should do. And of course, just as soon as she jumps onto the table, we must put her down."

Bae scrapes his bowl clean, licks the spoon and carries his dishes over to the pan of wash water. Dish washing, his peers have informed him, is a woman's job, but since there's no mother or daughter in the household, by default, it's his. He also helps with cleaning and cooking. He's made sure not to mention that to his friends. It's rough enough that his father is a spinner, also woman's work—but since he's very good at it, and others have come to him for instruction, the village doesn't tease Bae about that so much. Besides, they have other complaints against Rumplestiltskin that supersede the feminine nature of his occupation.

Bae isn't sure just what Rumple did that counted as cowardice—he doesn't really want to know, for fear that the facts would leave him unable to defend his father. Whatever it is, the accusation must be a lie, because Bae figures it takes considerable bravery to put up with the way most of the village treats Rumple, not to mention raising a kid alone. He knows of a couple of so-called brave men who've done much less: Borin's father, unable to feed his family, disappeared one night and no one bothered to try to find him. Dain's father prefers to spend his evenings in a noisy tavern instead of a house filled with noisy kids. And when Isolde's mother died, her father dumped her and her three sisters onto his parents and went off to join the duke's army. That was four years ago; he hasn't been seen since. Most fathers stay, but some of the children of the village sport an awful lot of bruises.

All in all, Bae wouldn't trade his soft-spoken, patient papa for any hero in this village. Besides, they have a special skill, he and papa; they keep it a secret because it sets them apart and would make the scorn worse if the villagers knew. Thanks to the spinsters who raised him, Rumplestiltskin can read and write, and thanks to the long winter nights that keep Bae indoors, so can Bae. Hidden in the cupboard where they keep their clothes, they have three books, one of them whole, and a slate and some pieces of chalk.

This secret and their aloneness bind them together. Bae knows his father would do anything to keep him warm and fed and loved, and he figures he'd do the same for papa. That's why he yearns to punch Dain in the face whenever the brat calls Rumple "Spindleshanks" or "Turntail." But of course papa won't allow that. "Violence is pointless," he mutters. "You won't stop the name calling and you'll only get hurt." Name calling and black eyes hurt plenty, Bae's learned, but what hurts more is when papa shakes his head slowly and says, "I'm disappointed in you, son." So Bae doesn't throw the first punch any more, but sometimes he runs off into the woods and kicks the trees and cries.

When the dishes are done, Bae sits down on the rug (Rumple wove it himself, one winter) and takes the cat onto his lap and teases it with piece of string. Papa says it's good to play like this; it trains the kitten in her hunting and catching. While they play on the floor, Rumple spins, and when the kitten flops onto her side right there in the middle of the floor and falls asleep, Bae fetches one of the books and reads aloud. Papa says listening to a good story helps him to spin; Bae hasn't admitted it, but reading aloud lets him show off a skill he's not permitted to take public.

He reads a story called "The Fox and the Cat." He knows it ends with the cat victorious; that's why he chose it. Then he closes the book and lies back on the rug, imagining the clever things his cat will do. The cat can't herd sheep or goats, can't drive grouse from bushes, and can't defend him against bullies, so maybe she isn't as useful as a dog, but she's playful and affectionate and she's his.


	3. Cat Lessons

On the second day of her residency, Rumple cuts a small exit for the cat into the house's door while Bae plants her in front of the cupboard that shelters their meager food supply: onions, potatoes, nuts, ground wheat, dried apples and plums. The cat is still too much a kitten to stay focused for long; she squirms out of his grip and runs off to jump upon Rumple's spinning bench, where she stretches her tiny body to its full length so she can bat at the thread on the spindle. Bae is not the patient sort: he's a boy full of energy and imagination and a longing for adventure. But he bears in mind his father's speech about the cat's destiny, so with a growl he scoops her up and plants her in front of the cupboard again. The cat sees this as a game; he has to chase her multiple times. But then a movement or a noise at the back of the cupboard attracts her attention and she fixes her penetrating gaze on something Bae can't see; she lowers her head; the tip of her tail twitches; that's her only movement until suddenly she springs and disappears into the cupboard. There's a scuffle, bags of food are knocked over, banging into the sides of the cupboard, then all sound ceases. Bae is worried as long minutes pass and the cat has not reappeared. "Papa?" He gestures to the cupboard.

"Don't worry, son. She'll come out when she's ready." He continues to work on the cat door.

Bae sits back on his haunches and sighs, but at last his impatience overtakes him and he pulls sacks from the cupboard until he discovers her. "Papa!" he crows. "She did it! Eew. She's eating it."

"Leave her be. If you distract her now she'll forget about her work. Come here and help me with this door."

Bae is pleasantly surprised that he has to show her her exit only once; after that she goes out and returns as she pleases. Unlike the neighborhood pups he's met, Midnight doesn't need to be house-trained. Bae throws that up in their faces when the boys whose fathers own sheepdogs brag about their pups' intelligence. It's not much, but it's something.

* * *

In front of the sandwich board Rumple hesitates, using the excuse of shifting his heavy knapsack from one shoulder to the other. The sign bears no writing, since almost no one in this village can read, but to identify the establishment it's promoting, someone has painted in garish colors a hog's face, presumably smiling but to Rumple the expression appears to be a grimace, as if the hog has a belly ache from drinking here, in the Hog's Head Tavern.

Rumple goes in here as seldom as possible, only for business and only for as short a time as necessary. He never drinks here. Not that he's adverse to an occasional ale or mead—most of his neighbors take a little light refreshment with their meals, since the water from the community well tastes sour, even when boiled for tea. Since returning from war, he never drinks alcohol any more. He has many good reasons to abstain: there's Bae to set an example for and stay alert for; there's the cost, money better spent on food or books; and there's the reason that's making him cringe right now: the reception he'll receive from the other customers, no matter how quiet and small he makes himself.

But if he's going to make a sale today—if Bae's to have meat in his stew tonight—he has to go in. He shifts his pack once more and enters the dank little business with its stained tables and broad-seated chairs (the proprietor has bought sturdy, cushioned chairs in the belief that comfortable customers will stay longer and drink more). It's a steamy afternoon so the shutters are open, and as a result the noises and smells from the road spill in and swarms of flies get drunk on the circles of beer that are left behind when a customer finishes his mug. Immediately upon stepping in, Rumple moves off to the side, leaving the entrance clear: he's been through this often enough that he knows what will call the barkeeper's wrath down. When his eyes adjust to the dim light, he glances at the barkeep, then, assured the big man hasn't noticed him yet and therefore won't throw him out (or worse, egg the customers on to tease him), Rumple scans the bodies in the room. Their backs are to him and for the most of them, their heads are bent over tankards or mugs, so he's safe for the moment. He recognizes most of the customers by their clothes—most of the villagers own only two or three pairs of trousers and an equal number of tunics. A quick survey of the room and he's spotted his buyer. He sighs deeply—his rumbling stomach urges him on—and approaches the bar where Orlander leans, head bent. Not a good sign: if he were flush with money, he'd be at a table with a turkey leg and some female companionship (for as long as his money held out). Nor does Rumple want to attract the notice of the barkeep, but there's no choice really. A growing boy's got to eat.

"Good day, sir," Rumple says softly, eyes averted, once he's reached Orlander's side. Orlander doesn't reply: another bad sign. Either a deal's gone sour for him or his wife's kicked him out of the house again. Or maybe he just doesn't have enough coin to get drunk. Rumple licks his dry lips and hopes it's not the latter.

"I don't suppose you want to buy something for a change," the bartender growls from the other end of the bar. A few heads turn, as the bartender intended, and someone murmurs, "Oh look. It's The Runner."

"Wanna see how fast he can run?" Someone else sniggers. "Anybody got a rock?" But no one moves—it's too hot and still a day for unnecessary motion, even for pranks.

Rumple shakes his head at the bartender, who grunts and resumes a conversation with the customers at his end of the bar. Rumple relaxes a little. "I have yarn to sell, the strongest and softest in the county. Brown, black and red." He and Bae had spent an entire day picking berries for the dye. Rumple flashes back to that day: they'd laughed and sang songs as they worked. He believes he'll remember that day long after Bae's grown.

Orlander challenges him loud enough for the other customers to hear—after all, he has a reputation to uphold and the price of that is Rumple's humiliation. There's no risk: Rumple won't turn away. He can't. "You think I want to deal with the likes of you?" Normally he makes a joke, but it's too hot to be clever today.

Rumple knows the routine; they've played this game for years. He sets his pack on the bar, slides it just a little toward Orlander, with the flap pulled back so the weaver can see the contents. "Please, for my boy. He's hungry." Bae would hate it if he heard his name being invoked in an attempt at begging. He wouldn't understand that neither man is sincere and the begging and the resistance are just part of the show that enables Orlander to save face while at the same time buying the finest quality yarn in the kingdom (for a pittance, of course). While most of the villagers think Rumple deserves to starve, the morality that they wish to uphold goes gray when Bae's name comes up. Not very many men can harden their hearts against a seven-year-old, especially Milah's son (for it hasn't been so long that she's been gone that they've forgotten her gray eyes and luxurious black hair).

They still talk about her; no one blames her for leaving, only for staying as long as she did (their wives, however, complain that she should have taken the boy, because what kind of man will he grow to be with a father like that? If he grows at all, poor half-starved thing). And the menfolk and womenfolk alike can't figure how a lovely, healthy young thing like her, who could have had her pick, married herself off to a scrawny, penniless outsider like him. The best they can figure, he must've conned her (everyone knows dishonesty's in the blood and blood will tell). What a loss, what a tragedy for the whole village when one of their loveliest married the likes of him. What a shame that it was her that ran off, not him. She'd have had her pick of replacements; some suitors wouldn't have been put off by the boy.

Orlander is not one who talks about her. He's not one to live in the past when there's no profit in it. That's why he'll buy from Rumple—once he's put on the show for his neighbors. After all, he's got to make a living too. Casually he peeks inside the bag, then empties its contents into his own pouch and nonchalantly flips a copper in the air so that Rumple will have to work for it (all the better for the show if it falls and he has to kneel on that bum ankle to pick it up from the floor). Rumple catches it though: spinning has given him heightened fine motor skills. He scowls, Orlander shrugs and slides a half copper across the sticky counter. There should be, by rights, yet another two coppers coming; for any other spinner there would be. But Rumple knows this is all so he tucks the money in his boot, gathers his empty bag and hurries back into the afternoon. The game is over for today.

* * *

A howl, a thump and a skittering of claws over wood make Rumple spin, knocking over his walking stick, which in turn knocks over one of the mugs that he placed on the table.

Tea spills across the table and into the slices of bread; the mug rolls onto the dirt floor and cracks. Rumple examines it forlornly. They're down to two mugs now: what will Morraine drink from when visits? A growl of "Bad cat! Bad!" Brings his attention to Bae, who's seated cross legged at the foot of the spinning wheel—worse, he's dangling the cat by the scuff.

"Bae! Put her down."

"But Papa, she was scratching your wheel."

"We will have to make her something to scratch. We talked about this. She's just a baby; she has to be taught."

"She's not even sorry. Look." Bae turns the cat around so his father can see its face, and he's right: the kitten appears neither ashamed nor fearful. In fact, she seems utterly uninterested in her owners' reactions to her conduct. Her amber eyes are fixed on the cupboard, and the pupils are growing wider.

"Ruffian hangs her head and whines when Morraine punishes her. Midnight acts like she doesn't even care," Bae complains.

"I don't think it's that she doesn't care. Maybe cats are different than dogs," Rumple shrugs. "Anyway, we discussed this last night. No hitting or yelling. What do you do when you want to make a goat stop doing something?"

"You can't make a goat stop doing what it wants to do," Bae scoffs.

"Correct. So you distract it. Look." Rumple nods at the cupboard-fixated cat. "She's already found something else to interest her. Put her down, Bae."

The boy obeys and the cat slinks over to the cupboard, her head lowered, her feet silent. She freezes when she reaches the cupboard, then suddenly she's a whirlwind of action, her paw prodding the cupboard door open, then her narrow body streaking through the opening. A brief scuffle ensues and Bae checks out the result. He rocks back on his heels to report, "She has another one. Papa, I don't know whether to be proud of her or mad at her."

Rumple smiles knowingly. "Now you have an inkling of how it feels to be a parent. Help me clean up this mess, son."

* * *

Every morning of his life—with the exception of the day after his wedding—Rumple has risen a half-hour before sunrise, to allow himself time to wash, dress and cook breakfast before beginning his work day. After Milah left, he could have changed his routine: he had only himself to answer to; Bae would have been happy to sleep in too. But remembering his own upbringing, he did his best to stick to routine, so Bae wouldn't feel as Little Rumple had, that the world had turned upside down.

Rumple wonders sometimes whether it was wrong of him not to encourage Bae to remember his mother fondly; after all, it's certain Milah will not be coming back, so why not give the child a fond, if false, memory? But he avoids the subject of Milah altogether—late at night, when Bae's asleep and Rumple allows himself to let down the brave face he puts on in the daytime, Rumple sometimes admits to himself that while he is lonely, it's probably not for Milah, but for the image she projected for him when they first courted. Sometimes he tries to remember the real Milah, the one that sweated and swore as she washed their clothes, the one that would pretend she didn't see the mountain of dirty dishes in the tub because she would rather sketch than do housework, the one that complained about everything they lacked, from white bread to the respect of the community. When he remembers that Milah, he supposes he should feel ashamed that she left him—and that he let her leave. But he doesn't—he feels relieved instead—and then he really does feel ashamed that he's not the man he ought to be.

In the dawn he puts on his clothes and the brave face. He leans against the table for balance as he lifts a foot to draw on his boot, and there's a sudden shriek and he feels a strike against his bum ankle, followed by a burning sensation. The skin around his ankle is so thick with scars that he hardly feels the sharp claws that sink in, but the cat's howl startles him and he drops the boot and a black shadow leaps from it even before it hits the floor.

Bae shoots up from his pallet and asks in a daze, "What? What?"

"Never mind, son. Go back to sleep."

"What was that racket?" But Bae settles back beneath his blanket.

"I accidentally stepped on the cat. Don't worry, she's fine." He doesn't know that—the cat door is swinging, a sign that she's vacated the house—but he won't worry the boy needlessly.

Bae just grunts. Still a little shaken, Rumple sits down at the table for a moment. First Milah, now Midnight, running out on him. Maybe it's his fault after all, he thinks; maybe he really is thick-skulled when it comes to women.

As the dawn leaks through the cracks in the wattle, Rumple hauls himself to his bare feet and heats up the last of the oatmeal. He's stirring and wondering just what it is that he keeps doing wrong when he feels silk brushing against his good ankle. He steps back from the hearth and bends, and the ball of black fur leaps onto his shoulder. She's purring. "You forgive me?" he whispers. She blinks her yellow eyes.

* * *

To enjoy the afternoon sunshine, Rumple is sitting in a chair just outside his home, a shirt that he is mending lying in his lap and the cat lying at his feet. He nods off himself as he watches her doze, but they awaken simultaneously to the sounds of footfalls and whispers. He thinks the cat will run away from the approaching strangers, but she merely stares with her amber eyes. He wonders what she's thinking.

"Is that her?"

"Yeah. Her name is Midnight." Bae kneels beside the cat, stroking her from head to tail; she stretches her long body under his touch. "Hey, Papa, sorry we waked you. This is Isolde and that's Borin. They never saw a cat before, so I'm showing them ours."

Rumple figures he'll have to have a chat tonight about the difference between _showing_ and _showing off_ , because Bae's just crossed that line. Still, as he greets the children, he is pleased that Bae seems to have made new friends.

"What does it do?" Borin folds his arms. "It looks like it's too small to herd sheep or fight wolves."

"She catches mice. She caught one yesterday. It was getting into our flour," Bae says.

"What did she do with it?"

Borin's arms unfold as Bae tells him. "She ate it."

Isolde shudders, but when she recovers from her disgust, she kneels too. "Can I pet her? Will she bite?"

"Nah, go ahead." Bae invites her to sit in the grass, and he carries the cat to her lap. She squeals in joy as the cat turns around three times, then flops onto her side and goes to sleep. "She's so soft!"

"She's a baby still. We think she's three or four months old."

Rumple rises and setting his sewing onto the chair, offers to bring out an apple for each child. He wants to encourage them to stay and play, but he knows better than to interfere: Bae must develop friendships on his own.

The children remain less than an hour before getting bored with an animal that does nothing but sleep. Rumple's heart sinks as they decide to go see the new baby at Alyis' house. They start to run off, and Bae stands watching, shoulders slumped, but then Borin folds his arms again. "Ain't you coming, 'Fire?"

Suddenly Bae's entire body comes alive. "Yeah!" Then he remembers to ask permission. Rumple grants it. He watches the children stir dust as they scamper down the road. It's a start, he hopes. He bends to scratch under the cat's chin. "Thank you."

The cat yawns.

* * *

Bae repeats his lessons for the cat every morning while Rumple prepares breakfast. In the beginning, it's a struggle to keep the kitten focused, but after a couple of days, hunger drives her to work. When the cupboard seems to be cleaned of vermin, Bae carries her to the storage shed, where Rumple keeps fleece as well as his tools, and he puts her to work there.

Only twice has Rumple had to chastise Bae about feeding the cat tidbits from the table (though, if they could have had meat more often, he suspects the disobedience would have been more frequent).

As days pass, the cat grows longer and taller, and Bae's bragging gains weight as he keeps score of Midnight's kills (as many as he's discovered, anyway). One night she wakes him rudely by pouncing on his back. He opens his eyes, bats at her to chase her away, but she meows until at last he sits up. She leaps from his back to his pillow and sits there regally, her tail wrapped around her. He can't see what's she on about; the house has just one window and its shutter is closed to keep out the mosquitos. With a groan he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

In the morning he wakes to the sound of his father cooking oatmeal. He rolls over; the cat is curled up behind him.

Lying beside her on the pillow, just inches from his nose, is what she wanted him to see in darkness: a dead mouse. He shoots up from his pallet with a yelp, waking the cat, who scampers out her door. Rumple looks into the commotion and chuckles. "Don't punish her, Bae."

"But Papa," he whines, picking up the mouse by the tail.

"She meant it as a gift. It means she thinks of you as her family and she wants to provide for you."

"Huh." But Bae peers outside, making sure the cat is out of sight before he tosses the mouse into the road.

"Wash your hands, Bae."

* * *

"Huh uh," Morraine argues.

"Uh huh," Bae insists. "See?" He shows her a row of nicks he's cut into the oak tree behind his house.

Her fingers drag across the cuts as she counts them. Then she whistles in admiration. "All that in two months? What a hunter!"

That afternoon, Gretchen drops in on Rumple. He grabs his walking stick and hauls himself painfully to his feet; his ankle is swollen after sitting for hours at the wheel. He needs to stand to stretch his muscles, but more importantly, he needs to show respect for his guest, even though they've lived side by side for years.

She's brought him a loaf of bread. His nose informs him it's fresh-baked. "I had extra. I thought you'd like some."

He puts the kettle on the fire. "Tea?" It's only nettle tea, which they drink every day, but he has an unopened jar of honey, bought at market only yesterday, and he's proud he has something nice to offer in return for the bread.

She sits at the table and accepts the tea, but waves away his offer to slice the bread. She smiles as she drizzles honey into her tea; she's admitted often enough that honey is her favorite treat. "Morraine was telling me about your cat." She and Lucas met Midnight soon after her arrival in the village, as had several other neighbors; most had never seen a cat before and were curious. Some had heard the old superstition and refused to come near Rumple's house, lest the witch's familiar cause them harm. ("Pay no heed," Rumple advises the children, and Morraine says stubbornly, "Well, I think she's beautiful, all sleek and shiny.")

"About her hunting skills, I mean," Gretchen adds.

Rumple grins as he stirs his tea. "She is quite the huntress. I no longer find droppings in my wool baskets, or gnawed holes in my food stores. I do believe she's driven off every mouse from the house."

"In that case, maybe she needs to expand her territory," Gretchen suggests. As he begins to catch on, she makes her request: "Could I borrow her for a week or two? I think all your mice have moved into my house."

Rumple's eyes widen, but he agrees readily. "Yes, of course. Come to think of it, she does seem to be growing thin from lack of game. I'll have Bae bring her over this evening. He'll show her where to hunt. And when she's finished her work at your house, she can come home."

"Thanks, Rumple." Gretchen sips her tea in gratitude.

* * *

It's been a long day and the Stiltskin men have tucked themselves into their pallets right after supper, leaving the dirty dishes for morning. Even the cat seems tired: as soon as Bae draws his blanket up to his chin, the cat appears—so quietly that it startles Bae—at his bedside and hops onto his hip and flops onto her belly to sleep.

Bae groans in annoyance. This has become a routine for the cat: she'll sleep on his hip until the moon has risen to its zenith, then she'll hop down and go hunting until sunrise. As long as she's sleeping on him, Bae doesn't dare to roll over, for fear of crushing her. Rumple has assured him that won't happen; the cat will jump away as soon as Bae stirs; but Bae doesn't want to chance it, so he keeps himself half-awake so he can remain still. Of course he fails every night. He's not even aware when he falls asleep until Rumple nudges him for breakfast. Then he sits bolt upright and in a panic searches his blankets for the crushed cat. He's only slightly relieved when he finds no broken body, but his search ends the same way every morning: before he can climb out of his pallet, the cat dashes in through her special door and in a single leap lands on top of him.

Tonight, however, just as Rumple feels sleep crawling over his sore body, Bae hisses, "Papa! Look!"

Rumple sits up. "What? What's wrong?"

"Look." Bae is pointing to the cat, which is perched on his hip, as always, and is washing her paw. A beam of moonlight streaming in through the open window gives her dark form a ghostly shape. "Her eyes."

Rumple squints. His own eyes are struggling. It's another symptom of growing old. "What?"

"Her eyes. They're _green_."

Rumple nods and is ready to roll over and go back to sleep, but Bae presses, "Papa! Her eyes changed color! They were yellow before."

"Oh. . . yeah, so they did. . . ."

"How did that happen?"

Rumple thinks a moment, but no answer comes. "We'll figure it out in the morning."

"Papa, is it true? Is she a witch?"

Rumple snorts. "Not likely."

"How do you know?"

"Think about it. If she had magic, would she have to chase mice? She'd just. . .do a spell or something and the mice would come to her."

It's Bae's turn to snort. "Maybe she likes hunting."

"She's not a witch, Bae. Go to sleep."

" _I_ think she's magic," Bae mumbles. Then a new thought occurs to him: "But I'm not going to tell anyone else."


	4. Rare and Fine

Bae's social circle grows. Eventually every child between four and ten comes to inspect, even pet, the cat. Most of them lose interest in one visit, but some of them come back for the treats Rumple serves as well as the entertainment Midnight provides. A few start coming back to play with Bae. Most parents, too busy earning a living to notice who their kids play with, don't forbid it. Only a few stick to their principles and jerk their kids' arms as they march them back home.

Rumple inspects his food supply. He does this once a week to throw away the spoiled or rodent-eaten goods. Now he also has to see how much damage he's done by giving out treats. Not that he'd stop: Bae's need for friends matters just as much as their mutual need for meals. Surprisingly, the losses balance out with the gain; he doesn't need to throw anything away.

* * *

At the unfamiliar rap on his door—Gretchen and Lucas never knock, just call out a greeting and enter—Rumple looks up from his spinning and invites his caller to enter. He recognizes her from the market—she sells cheese—but he doesn't know her name, and as with most of the women in this village, he can guess her age only by the number of children she's borne. Life here seems to take so much more out of the women than the men.

"Hello? Rumplestiltskin?"

He seizes his walking stick and rises. "Yes. What can I do for you, Mistress. . . ?"

"Cedany. My husband is Barda. We have a house at the other end of the village. We keep goats."

"Yes, I remember seeing you in the marketplace. I've bought cheese from you when I could afford it. My son is very fond of it."

She reaches into a deep pouch slung over her shoulder. "I'm glad to know it. I was hoping, in fact. I thought we might. . . make an arrangement. You see, Gretchen tells me you have a cat, and as you can imagine, being cheese makers, we have a mouse problem. . . I thought, a wheel of cheese every week for a month, in exchange for use of the cat for the same month?"

* * *

Another woman comes to him, the very day that Cednay returns Midnight to her proper home. She carries a toddler on her hip and two older children trail along behind. She shows him her baby's hand and Rumple is confused until she uncurls the child's fist and he realizes one of the fingertips is missing. "Two weeks ago, in the late night, Leif woke us all, shrieking. We lit a candle and ran to him. His hand was covered with blood. My husband caught the rat that did it, and he killed it, but where there is one—"

"There are twenty more," Rumple finishes the old adage.

"Rumplestiltskin, _you_ are a father. My baby—" she sits down heavily on the chair he provides, and as she cries, so does her baby, and the older children stare in fearful silence.

He makes honey-laced tea for the woman and her older children. "Mistress—"

"Angmar. My husband is Leofrik, the cartwright."

"Mistress Angmar, would you like to borrow a cat?"

* * *

"I hardly got a chance to welcome her home before Mistress Angmar took her," Bae grumbles as he sets the table for supper. Rumple notices, however, that from the corner of his eye, Bae is admiring the thick slices of bread from Gretchen and the thick slices of cheese from Cednay that await them, along with their usual nettle tea. The boy's tongue darts out to moisten his lips in anticipation, and Rumple smiles slyly.

"I would've enjoyed having her home too, but the safety of those children has to come before our own entertainment, yes?" Rumple hovers over the table with the plate of bread and cheese, subtly drawing Bae's attention to the treats their cat has earned for them.

"Yeah, I know: Midnight's destiny." Bae is trying to keep up his grumpiness but fails.

"Wash your hands for supper, son."

* * *

A black butterball of fur drops down from mid-air and lands squarely on the book that Morraine and Bae are studiously bent over. Bae raises an open hand, prepares to swat, but then he hastily glances at his father working diligently at the spinning wheel, and Bae knows that no matter how distracted his papa seems, he's never so distracted that he doesn't catch all of Bae's mischief. So Bae tightens his mouth and gently lifts the cat off the book and down to the floor. "Shoo, Midnight," Morraine urges. A slight relaxation of Rumple's shoulders informs Bae that Papa is pleased.

Only three people in the village know Rumple and Bae's secret: the three who live next door. Gretchen, Lucas and Morraine are in complete agreement that the secret must be kept, but Gretchen and Lucas don't agree whether their neighbors' ability to read is a good thing. Gretchen dreads what will happen when the secret is discovered—and in a village this size, it's bound to happen. Rumple is already a pariah, and there are few enough adults who will trade with him and few enough children who will play with Bae. She's seen the change that's come upon Bae since the introduction of the cat into the village has attracted Borin's and Isolde's attention, and she worries that the lonely child will lose the small patch of ground he's gained when word leaks out that, apparently, the coward and his brat think themselves better than everyone else. Nobody in this village reads, not even the richest of the farmers; only the duke's representative, who comes by once a month to hear citizens' requests and collect taxes (mostly the latter).

Gretchen also worries what will become of her daughter when the villagers learn that Bae has been teaching Morraine to read (such a quick learner, that girl; Gretchen is proud at the same time she dreads the outcome). She tried to put a stop to the teaching, but with Lucas on Morraine's side, she lost that battle before she even confronted it. Lucas has dreams—fantasies, really—for something better than this village for his bright, vivacious daughter. Perhaps a governess position, preferably in one of those riverside towns in the north, with some fine family who will teach her manners and introduce her to a merchant or a scholar.

Morraine has no such ambitions; she imagines coins jingling in her pockets as she walks past bakeries and dress shops, and she imagines stacks of those coins someday buying her passage to some of the exotic cities described in one of Bae's books (the one with the missing pages in the middle).

Still, Gretchen is grateful for the kindness Rumplestiltskin shows, as generous with Morraine as he is with his own child (and she's seen the emptiness of his larder, so she knows what it's cost him to feed a guest). And so she keeps the secret and she allows the reading lessons to continue and whenever she has a little extra flour she "accidentally" bakes too much.

* * *

Nearly a month has passed before Leofrik, on his way to market, drops in at the spinner's hovel to return the cat. He clears his throat as he raps on the door; he's a proud man and "thank you" is foreign to his tongue, and worse, he's nervous that one of his customers will see him standing in the coward's yard. So he makes his visit very brief, handing the cat to Rumple, then handing a basket to Bae that contains a hammer, some wooden pegs and a handsaw. Their condition is not new, but they have been well maintained, as one would expect from a man whose living depends upon his tools. Despite their age, Rumple can easily estimate their value: in the marketplace, he's bargained unsuccessfully to purchase the tools he would need for household repairs.

"A man always can use some tools, I figure," Leofrik says, then turns away before Rumple can thank him.

* * *

"Is that her?"

Rumple glances up, startled by unfamiliar voice and the large shadow falling across his doorstep. The figure shifts as Rumple stands to greet the stranger, and with a faint ray of sun now falling over the man's shoulder, Rumple can recognize the visitor; still, he doesn't know what the farmer is referring to. "Her?"

The farmer points at the cat. "I been hearin'—well, you know, we just harvested. We always lose a portion to the damn field mice, you know."

Rumple understands now. He bends to scoop up the cat.

"Well." The farmer seems annoyed, but Rumple understands it has as much to do with the necessity of asking for a favor as it does with the disgust of speaking to a war deserter. "It's hog butcherin' time. I could go high as half a smoked side for a month's use of the cat."

Rumple has no idea how much meat a "side" would consist of, but it sounds like a good deal. Midnight under his arm, Rumple takes down from his shelf a basket that Bae had woven and lined with the scraps from an outgrown tunic. Bae calls it "Midnight's traveling basket," as he felt she had a need for comfort in her many excursions throughout the village. He sets the cat into the basket and she seats herself primly in the middle, as if she understands it's time to go to work.

"Don't feed her any scraps." Rumple scratches her head and strokes her sleek back down to her tail. She likes to be petted that way; it's her due. A small lump forms in his throat as he surrenders the basket. He has no qualms—it's a very generous deal, and he knows the farmer appreciates the value of animals, even small ones. It's just that, with the nights growing long and Bae growing older and spending more time with his friends, Rumple has enjoyed having the cat to talk to. They'd come to an agreement that as long as she keeps her paws off his wheel, she's welcome to sleep at his feet or on his shoulder while he spins. It's an arrangement they find mutually beneficial.

The farmer looks at him strangely but nods before taking his leave.

* * *

Lucas returns from a profitable fishing trip, and in return for the assistance Bae gives Morraine in salting the fish for winter, he shares a little of his catch, just enough for one meal. He would share more, but Rumple refuses when he sees how crazy the odor of fish makes Midnight. "That's a fight we're bound to lose."

Lucas sits down at Rumple's table to warm up over a cup of tea and to watch the cat, who is dancing back and forth, first approaching Lucas to sniff at his clothes, then hopping back when Lucas shifts on the bench. Lucas and Bae laugh, then Lucas makes a suggestion. "Ought to think about breedin' her. She's old enough."

"Breeding?" Rumple studies the cat. He hasn't considered the notion before.

"One of these days not too far down the road, she's gonna be a terror to live with, yeowlin' and such."

Rumple considers it, comparing the cat's impending condition to what he remembers from his limited time living with a wife. Milah never yeowled, of course, but the "and such" certainly made Rumple want to hide in the woods some days. He doesn't want to put his hard-working little cat through such agony. "How often do they, ah—"

"Well, from what I've heard, too often."

* * *

When the first frost arrives, Rumple borrows a handcart from Leofrik. He and Bae load it with baskets of thread and yarn, and with the cat riding atop a basket, they set out for the castle at Avonlea. They will sell their goods ( _theirs_ , Bae can say with pride, because he's done some of the spinning himself) in the city, the rest at the castle, and as for the cat, Rumple has another plan. He estimates that she is a year old now, or a little more, and from the bouts of odd behavior she's exhibited in the past few months, "It's time," he announces to Bae, "for her to become a mother."

"Do you mean she's going to have kittens? When, Papa?" Bae bounces on his heels.

"No, not yet. She has to. . .ah. . .find a mate first."

"Oh." Bae falls silent, watching his cat sleep. He knows how these things work: Papa has explained it, and he's seen dogs and goats mating. In such a small village, innocence is hard to hang onto.

"There are a lot of cats at the castle. I'm going to ask if, well, if we can leave Midnight with them for a day or two while we rent a stall in the marketplace. We have a large supply of thread to sell, twice as much as usual, since there were two of us working."

"And we'll sell twice as much, because two of us will be selling." But still Bae watches his cat with a worried look. They walk on, and finally Rumple asks what's troubling him. He's heard the screams of women as they deliver their newborns; from afar he's watched funeral processions for women who have died in childbirth. He's even attended a child-organized funeral for a lamb born with its umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. He knows the risks, but even at his tender age, he knows everything that lives will die. Still, though the cat hasn't been with them long, he loves her (a truth he'd admit only to his papa). "What if she isn't strong enough to have kittens? She's still kind of a baby herself."

"In the lifespan of cats, she's full grown. It's part of their nature that they don't live as long as people do. You may have noticed that Lucas' dog has a gray muzzle and doesn't see so well any more. How old do you think she is?"

Bae shrugs. The dog has lived next door as long as he can remember. He compares the dog's condition to papa's and takes a guess based on that age. "Forty?"

Rumple shakes his head. "She's twelve. For a dog, that's old. Dogs usually live to be ten or fifteen years old. I suspect the same is true of cats. Or perhaps less, because they're smaller."

Bae persists, "If she has kittens, mightn't she die birthing them?"

"There's a possibility, but I think it will be safe for her. She's in good health, and we'll take care of her if she has trouble." Rumple doesn't specify how they'll take care of her. There's a man in the village who doctors sick sheep and goats and horses, but does he know anything about cats? Besides, his fee is more than Rumple makes in a year.

Rumple slides a comforting arm around Bae's shoulders. "She'll be all right, son."

"How did my mother die?"

Rumple stares silently into the horizon.

"How did she die, papa?"

"Pirates."

Of course Bae wants to know the full story, but the tone in his father's voice brings all further conversation about the subject to a halt. He reaches into the cart and scratches the cat's head.

As they approach the servants' entrance to the castle, they pause to wash at the well. Shaking the water from his hair, Rumple lets his gaze wander over the bustling castle; he wonders, as he always does, what it would be like to live in such a grand place and to have cooks and maids and governesses at his beck and call. A movement on one of the balconies draws his attention and he squints into the sun to see what's happening.

He thinks he's seeing an angel.

She wears a ball gown of gold. The sunlight makes her alabaster skin and luxurious auburn hair glow with an ethereal light. She leans on the rail, tilting her fine-boned face toward the sun and closing her eyes. She's still as a painting, and so is Rumple as he admires her, until someone from in the castle calls to her and with a scowl she lifts her heavy skirts and turns to go inside.

Bae tugs his father's coat. "Shouldn't we go in now?"

Rumple nods. He approaches the entrance with head raised, because the thread he has to sell is his best yet, and because he knows the weaver will welcome him. And so it is: as he and the weaver bargain, one of the cooks, charmed by Bae's bright smile and flawless manners, feeds the boy milk and pie. When Rumple presents his plan for Midnight, the weaver simply shrugs. "You can leave her in the barn as long as you like. She'll have her pick of males there."

Two days later, when they return for their cat, their cart is empty and Rumple's pouch is full. He's still underpaid, he realizes that; he knows the quality of his work and the prices that other spinners charge. But at least he and Bae will eat this winter. As for Midnight, she seems calmer as she rides in the cart in an empty basket.

* * *

"She has fleas."

"Prob'ly picked them up from those _barn_ _cats_ at the castle," Bae snorts.

"Get the lye soap, son. We're going to have to scrub her down, like Lucas does with his dog." Rumple drags the dish tub outside and begins to heat water for it. Lucas isn't so persnickety with his dog, but it seems cruel to wash the cat in cold water. While Rumple fills the tub with warm water, Bae sits on the ground nearby, the cat on his lap, explaining to her what's about to happen. She looks bored.

Rumple has never washed a dog before, but he's seen Lucas do it enough times, a firm hand latched to the dog's ruff while Morraine scrubs the animal vigorously with soap. So that's how he instructs Bae to proceed, and Bae brings the cat over to the tub as Rumple soaps up a scrub brush. But as soon as the cat's back feet touch the water, she shrieks and shoots out of Bae's arms, all four legs pumping, her claws scraping the air, water droplets flying. Her howls are equal parts terror for the drowning she seems to think imminent and angry insult that her owners see it necessary to humiliate her in this manner. One of her paws slaps Bae's nose; seeing him as her lifebuoy, she throws all four paws at him, claws out to cling to him, and he falls over backwards, twisting his head away from the tiny knives that seek purchase in his ears.

"Bae!" Rumple drops the brush into the tub and dives at her, but he stumbles over his own ankle and lands on his belly in the grass. Bae regains his feet before Rumple does and assists him to stand. The cat is long gone.

"Maybe we best leave it to her to take care of her own bathing," Rumple suggests.

* * *

This year, the winter bothers them less than last year. With a new roof and the cracks in the wattle filled, and the foodstuffs safe from mice, the Stiltskin family keep warm and dry. Even more to Bae's liking, Rumple has stopped loaning the cat out. In her condition, he feels, it's safer for her to stay at home, especially as her belly stretches and heavy snows drive starving wolves closer to the village.

Bae weaves a second, larger basket for the expected arrivals, and he sets it near the hearth. He is offended when Midnight hops out of the basket just as soon as he places her into it.

"Papa, why's she being so finicky? This is a perfectly good basket. Look, I lined it extra thick."

Rumple shrugged. "Who knows how expectant mothers think? Let her choose where she wants to sleep." As they enjoy their onion soup and fried pork, they avoid talking so they can spy on the cat. She sleeps at the foot of the spinning wheel, but as darkness falls, she begins rooting around in the cupboards. She inspects the food stores first, then, deeming them mice-free, she hops (not so gracefully now) into the cupboard where Bae keeps his clothes. Bae groans as he hears her pushing his tunics and trousers around; he groans even louder when she returns to her new basket and with teeth and claws tears apart the cushion he made for her. The cloth in her teeth, she walks backwards, dragging the ripped cushion into the clothes cupboard.

"Papa," Bae protests, but Rumple chuckles. "You made it for her to be comfortable. This is how she makes it _more_ comfortable."

"Women!" Bae snorts in mock frustration, and they both laugh.

* * *

An abnormally sunny day has melted the snow, so Rumple takes advantage of the break to drag a tub into the back yard and wash clothes. Usually Bae helps by hanging the damp garments on a bit of rope stretched between two trees, but he's in a funny phase right now where he doesn't want to be caught doing women's work. Then when he sees Rumple dragging the tub into the yard, he reddens, remembering _someone_ has to do the laundry. Still, he bends his head over a book (a new one that Rumple bought in Avonlea) and pretends to study so he doesn't have to cope with the embarrassment of his father doing women's work—and his shame in refusing to help.

The cat sleeps on his lap. She's sleeping a lot these days. But she suddenly raises her head, jumps awkwardly down, and trots into the clothes cupboard, and in a minute Bae knows why: there's a woman standing in the open doorway.

"Hello? Is this the home of the cat?" But the woman is staring at the book on the table. Hastily Bae closes it, but he's already caught.

"Uh, yeah, come in, ma'am. Can I get you some tea?" Bae doesn't wait for her answer; he rinses out Papa's cup.

"Welcome, mistress." Rumplestiltskin, having heard the voices, comes up behind her. "Good lad, Bae. Please, sit, and tell us how we can help you." He draws back his chair and motions for her to be seated.

She sits and accepts the tea, but her gaze passes between the book and the peasants, and from the crease forming between her eyes, she's clearly not pleased. She tries to hide her interest in the book, however, by pretending to look for the cat. "I'm Mistress Enndolyn. My husband is the baker Falk."

Rumple nods. "Aye. I know him."

"We've heard your cat can clean out a nest of mice in under a week. I came to offer an exchange, a basket of rolls, for use of your cat." She speaks as if it's a done deal. After all, these are peasants: to them, a soft roll is a delicacy.

Bae twitches, his imagination jumping already to visions of all the lovely sandwiches he could make with those rolls. He and Morraine had shared one once, a payment for an errand they'd run for Falk. The baker's skills are not overrated.

"I'm sorry, Mistress," Rumple is saying with true longing in his voice, "but I must decline. Our cat is, for the present time, indisposed."

The frown deepens. "Is she injured? Ill?"

"No, Mistress, she's, ah," Rumple searches for a term he can use without offending. "In the family way."

Enndolyn is not only not offended, she's inspired. The businesswoman in her smells a new deal. "I'll take one."

"Take—" Rumple echoes in confusion.

"A basket of rolls each week for. . . one month. For a kitten."

Rumple and Bae exchange worried glances. "Oh, I don't. . . ."

"Two months."

"Papa," Bae puts a little whine into his tone.

"Three months, assuming it's a strong, healthy animal. Female preferred. I hear they're better hunters."

Rumple nods and Bae groans. Pleased with the outcome of her visit, Enndolyn pushes her tea aside, rises, and pumps Rumple's hand, nearly crushing it in her grip. She seems to think that the firmer the handshake, the firmer the deal.

When she's gone, Bae huffs and turns his back on his father. "How could you do that? Sell off Midnight's baby when he isn't even born yet?"

"He—or she—will stay with her until she weans him. Then it will be time for him to go out into the world and start his own job." Rumple tries to make light of it, but Bae isn't budging. Rumple sighs and reclaims his seat. "Bae, pour me a cup of tea, will you, please? Then sit down. It's time we had a talk."

The mystery behind his words catches Bae's attention and he does as bid. He leans his elbows on the table and watches closely as a blush rises up Rumple's neck to his cheeks. "Ah, son, you've seen lambing."

Bae nods.

"Well, it's time you knew the whole story of how that happens. . . what happens before that happens. . .and why, ah, we can't keep the kittens once they're grown." Rumple cools his tea with a breath. "And, uh, after that, we'll talk about how that happens for men and women."

An hour later, Bae is staring at the cat, in a mixture of awe and horror. Then he stares at his father. "You. . .and Mama. . . "

The red in Rumple's cheeks hasn't faded. "It, uh, can be. . . very nice. When people love each other." Then he adds hastily, "And when they're old enough to start a family. And when they're married."

* * *

Rumple started selling thread and yarn, his own and his spinster guardians', when he was eight years old. All those years of selling have given him many a learning opportunity, and one of the observations he's made is that the harder something is to buy, the more determined people will feel to acquire it. If a seller can add to that rareness a product that is really fine, really worth seeking, his business will surpass all others'. Rumple has the talent and the patience to produce the finest thread in the kingdom, but he lacks the means to make his buyers strive for it. He and Bae need the money too badly for him to hold out for a higher price.

He's not so sure he'd get it, anyway.

But the cat, now that's another story.


	5. Contracts and Kittens

The snow returns the next night, and a day later so does the farmer, who Rumple now knows is called Fort, short for Forthworth. As before, he enters without knocking, but this time he seems to perceive that their acquaintance gives him certain rights, because he helps himself to tea before Rumple has had time to grab his walking stick and rise from the spinning wheel.

"Hello, Fort," Rumple greets him. He really doesn't mind the man's pushiness.

"Mornin'," the farmer grunts. He reaches across the table to grab the slice of pork that Rumple had intended for breakfast. He tears off a big bite with his teeth, then says around it, "How's the cat?"

"She's doing well. I think."

The farmer peers under the kitchen table, then raises his head to report, "She'll be deliverin' before the week's out."

Rumple nods thoughtfully. "Anything we should do to make it easier for her?"

"Just stay out of her way." Fort chomps down on the remainder of the pork.

"How many is she likely to birth?"

Fort chomps. "This bein' her first litter, a couple. Probably no more'n three. She'll be fine." He washes the meat down with tea, then wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "Listen, I hear your kid can read."

Rumple keeps his eyes fixed on his own mug. He says nothing.

"If that be the truth, I'm askin' if he can write too."

Rumple just stirs his tea.

Fort leans forward, as if concerned that someone on the outside could hear through the hut's walls. He's probably right. "'Cause if it be the truth, I might be needin' him to write somethin'." He reaches into his pocket to produce a silver coin, which he slaps onto the table.

That coin could buy all the fleece Rumple needs to start the year.

"He'd be doin' some good. Maybe preventin' a feud."

Rumple says slowly, "I taught him."

Fort's eyes go round, then narrow and his voice drops. "You ain't friends or relation to the Rowntrees, are ya?"

Rumple raises an eyebrow.

"Nah, I guess not." Fort brushes the thought away. "Their farm borders on mine. Though we don't see eye to eye about where his ends and mine starts. We've been pushin' and shovin' over it for years. Last week my boy got into a fight with one of his. There was a knife involved, some blood. So my wife says it's got to end now. I gotta agree. Land ain't worth a son's life."

"Aye. Rowntree—does he see it that way too? Is he ready to put it down in writing?"

Fort shrugs. "I ain't talked to him yet. I figure, you could go with me. I mean, a little guy like you, in the middle, if either of us was to start swingin' punches, you'd get crushed. Guys as big as us, it would be embarrassin' to beat up the likes of you. No offense."

"Indeed." A gleam grows in Rumple's eyes. What would Bae think of him, if he stepped in to settle a feud? What might the village think? But then again, Fort towers over Rumple like Leopold Mountain towers over Daisy Valley. The farmer's fist is as big as a hog's head. Rumple stares at the silver coin. He's not used to negotiating; the buyers he's sold to, ever since he got back from war, tell him to take what he's offered or starve. But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, because no one else in this village can write, so he draws in a breath and taps the coin. He knows Fort has very little cash, but he has plenty of fresh meat on the hoof and Rumple has a growing boy.

Rumple pushes the coin back at Fort. "I'll do it but I want three chickens and four pounds of pork every month for a year." He's tempted to add _and not your rejects either_ , but he knows how proud Fort is; the farmer will not give him castoffs. The meat won't be his best, but it'll come close.

Fort whistles between his teeth—then gives him the courtesy of bargaining back. He understands it's for Bae that Rumple has found the nerve to push. "I seen that roof of yours—first big wind will take it away. You got a roof that needs thatchin', I got three strong sons. Your writin' for our work."

Rumple doesn't want to press his luck, but he's got a growing son too. "New roof and two chickens a month for a year."

Fort sticks his hand out. "Deal. But you got to help me talk to Rowntree. You talk like a smart guy."

"We'll go right now."

"Now?" Fort starts to object, then nods. "Yeah."

Rumple allows himself a grin as he shakes the farmer's hand. Bae's going to eat well this year—if Rumple survives the meeting with Rowntree.

* * *

Rumple has discovered the power of pacing, particularly when one is walking with a stick that makes a rhythmic, calming tap tap tap. He's also finding that spinning wool isn't the only activity that mesmerizes; spinning words can do that too. As he paces, he avoids looking at Fort, Fort's three boys, Rowntree and Rowntree's five boys. He focuses his vision inward, imagining the village that could result if this negotiation works. Instead of punching, stabbing and stealing from each other, maybe citizens can settle their differences with writing. Maybe small guys with limps and old guys who can't make a fist any more and young mothers and widows can start to have a chance in this world, if every village would have what cities like Avonlea have: scholars knowledgeable in the law and mediation, scribes to record and archive contracts and wills and deeds, and sheriffs to enforce the written word. So sure is he that the written word can make the world more livable and more humane that he forgets to be scared. He just talks, and whenever one of Rowntree's boys tries to interrupt, all of Fort's boys square their jaws, and Rowntree's progeny back down.

Rumple talks until he's out of breath and out of words, then he simply stops and sits down. "Gentlemen, the welfare of your families and this village is in your hands." He folds his own hands and waits.

"How do I know that what you put on that paper is what we tell you to?" Rowntree demands.

""Cause I'll feed him to the hogs if he don't." One of the Rowntree sons thrusts his fist into his palm, but one of his brothers shoves him and hisses at him to shut up.

"Can any of you read?" Rumple asks quietly.

"Of course not!"

"The tax man will be here on Monday. Suppose we invite him here at dinnertime and ask him to read for his supper."

"How do we know he won't lie for you?"

Every man, except the asker, in the room snorts. Fort's eldest scans the room with a pointed finger. "You ever knowed a farmer who was friends with the tax man?"

That seem sufficient for Rowntree. "All right then, but the spinner stays home. I don't want him around when the tax man's readin' the paper to us."

That suits Rumple just fine. Fort will send him word when the matter is settled, one way or another.

Two mornings later, as he and Bae wash dishes, Fort's eldest arrives, pushing a handcart through the snow. He sets a crate down inside the hut (not bothering to knock first) and walks away without saying anything.

"A present!" Bae exclaims, returning the kitten to its mother. He reaches into the crate and brings out package after brown-paper package. Peeling the paper from one, he exclaims, "It's meat!"

"I guess they signed," Rumple smiles. "Bae, while we cook up this chicken, I'd like to tell you what I did the other day when I went off with Forthworth. I think you'll be proud of your old man. . . ."

* * *

Rumple opens his door to the dawn and shuffles onto his snowy lawn. He has a bucket in each hand, so he's left his walking stick inside the hovel. His ankle will support him on the short distance he has to travel. He's headed for the community well—he usually fetches the day's water before the village awakens, because he's found that waiting in line for his turn at the dipper can be an invitation to harassment. He bends his head in determination and trudges toward the well.

But suddenly he regrets leaving his walking stick behind, because a hand as big as a hog's head shoots out and grasps the handle of one of his buckets. He steps backwards, searching the dark for his assailant, and then he has cause to wish his ankle were whole so he could run, because the man staring down at him is as broad as a bull and as tall as an oak. Rumple steps backwards again, onto his bad ankle, and it twists and he starts to go down, until another ham hand grabs his elbow and straightens him. "You all right, Stiltskin?"

"Sorry, sir. I wus jus gonna carry the bucket for ya," his first assailant explains, releasing the bucket.

Catching his balance and his breath, Rumple squints through the dusk until he recognizes the face attached to the hand holding his elbow. "Fort! It's you!"

"Yeah." The big farmer removes his hand from Rumple's elbow and instead rubs his neck. "Mornin'." He nudges the assailant, and that young worthy snatches off his cap and echoes, "Mornin', sir. Let me get that water for ya." Rumple surrenders the buckets. Then two other voices echo, "Mornin', sir."

Rumple can barely make out the forms in front of him now. "Uh, mornin'. Mornin', Tarrin, Jarin, Rulf."

"We kinda forgot you city folk sleep in late," Fort continues. "We figured we'd get a jump on that roof." He nods toward the shortest of his sons, who's pushing a cart full of reed and straw. A ladder and three large cutters are stretched out on top.

"It's only been two days," Rumple points out. "I hadn't expected payment until the end of the month."

"Never let it be said that Forthworth and his family don't pay their debts," the farmer grinned broadly.

The biggest son raises the filled pails. "Where you want these, sir?"

"Just leave them inside the door." Rumple gestures toward his hovel. "Thank you, uh—"

"Rulf, sir."

"You other two, get started on cuttin' that fresh thatchin'," Fort instructs. He looks back at Rumple. "Unless you and your boy want to eat breakfast first? You'll wanna be out of the house whilst we work. It's gonna be chilly."

"Well, I—"

"I know you don't wanna waste the day. Tell you what: grab your cloaks and you and me and your boy'll go back to the farm for a while. Your boy can ride one of my plowhorses and visit the piglets, and if you've a mind, I can show you how to get more out of that garden you got out back. By suppertime, my boys'll be finished with that roof." He plants his fists on his hips and watches his sons unload the cart. The first thing they unload—and with great care—is a large wicker basket. Fort nudges Rumple. "That's their lunch. Three growin' boys got be to kept fed."

Rumple opens and closes his mouth. He doesn't know what to say; it's just a day at a farm, but it's the first social invitation he's ever received, from someone other than Gretchen and Lucas. What will they talk about? Rumple knows nothing about farming and he's pretty sure that if anyone in Forthworth's household knows anything about spinning, it's the missus, not Fort.

Fort catches the hesitation and guesses, "'Less you got other plans?"

Rumple begins to collect his wits. Between Bae's curiosity and Fort's chattiness, Rumple might find an occasional "Uh huh" and "Is that so" would hold up his end of the conversation.

"Uh, no, Fort, no plans. Give me a minute to wake Bae. Then let's go fishin'."

Fort waves a hand toward the house, granting him leave, and turns his attention to the contents of the cart. The sun is fully risen now. Rumple limps into the hut, grabs his walking stick, then bends to shake Bae's shoulder. "Waken up, son. Our friends are here and we're going on a visit."

* * *

Others hear of the contract he drew up for Fort and Rowntree, and they come with small jobs: Leofrik wants a bill of sale for wagons he's selling to the army. Isolde's mother wants a letter informing her sister, who lives in Aureum, that their uncle has died. A priest in Aureum will be paid to read the letter aloud, since the sister doesn't read. Borin just wants to see his name in print: he pays with two marbles.

The writing money isn't enough to live on, but it provides a bit extra for emergencies and more importantly, it provides hope.

* * *

Rumple gives Bae's shoulder a shake. Bae groans, opening one eye; the only light in the house comes from the fire and a single candle that Rumple has saved for an emergency. Realizing that, Bae sits upright, dashing a sleeve over his crusty eyes. "What's wrong, Papa?"

"Nothing wrong. I know you don't want to miss this." He directs Bae to the clothes cupboard. They drop to their knees. The cupboard door's open, so they're able to peer inside. "Quiet now."

"It's too dark. I can't see. Bring the candle—"

"No, Bae, bright light would bother her right now. Your eyes will adjust to the dark. Now, shhhh."

They hear the cat meow with the same protesting sound she makes whenever Bae accidentally steps on her tail. "Papa, she's hurt!"

"No, she'll be okay. The kittens are being born."

"Ohhhhh." Bae's eyes do adjust and now he sees something that disgusts him. "What's she doing? Ewww, she's licking her butt. Why's she doing that?"

"She's helping them come out. See that little tiny black shape? That's a kitten."

"I see another one coming out. They're both black."

They can see a tiny form emerge from its mother. The process is very quick, compared to the work of delivering human babies. Rumple's never actually seen a baby being born, but he's certainly _heard_ it, several times, from neighbors' huts.

Midnight is panting, but she goes to work immediately licking the kittens clean.

"She's giving them a bath. It also helps them breathe," Bae says. After his father explained to him the hows and whys of birth, he's made a study of it with Fort's piglets and Lucas' goats. "I'm going to make sure my wife won't ever have to go through that."

Rumple pats his back. "It's a temporary pain."

"Guess that's it. She's feeding them now, so it must be over. Two kittens." Bae knows from their inquires at the castle that a small litter is normal for a first-time mother. He also knows they can't keep the kittens; still, the question is in his eyes.

"We have three months with them," Rumple assures him. "So why don't you name them?"

This is a satisfactory compensation. "After they finish eating. Then I'll pick them up and find out if they're boys or girls."

"One of them will go to Mistress Enndolyn. I made a deal. But you can choose who to give the other one to."

The choice of owner requires little thought. "Morraine. But not if they're both boys." They've discussed this, and Bae understands why Midnight can't have her son living next door. "If they're both boys, we'll give one to Borin. Morraine will get her pick from the next litter."

"Very good, son. Let's watch them a while, then we need to go back to bed." Rumple is pleased. His son has made a difficult decision, an adult decision. Neither of them wants to disappoint Morraine, but they have to think of the greater good.

* * *

Between her babies, her hunting and all the kids who come to stare at her, Midnight has her paws full. She gets put out sometimes when the kids want to interrupt the kittens' mealtime with play, but a snap of Bae's fingers reminds her not to bite the visitors. Bae supervises the visits, permitting only two kids at a time, for only an hour at a time. Some of the kids bring gifts for the kittens: arrowheads, sticks, interesting rocks. The kittens are of course most interested in Rumple's spindle and thread. As the weeks go by, Bae becomes very busy training the kittens to keep off the wheel and out of Rumple's work baskets. When Isolde, Borin or Morraine come to play, Bae can be found with two sleek shadows trailing behind.

Enndolyn stops in to inspect her merchandise. She prefers the female, she reiterates, but Bae stand firm: that kitten belongs to Morraine. The smaller kitten, a male, will go to the baker's family. "I know the male's a bit small right now," Bae strokes his chin as if in thought, "But may I remind you, _Midnight_ will be training him how to hunt. And we could make a second deal: I'll provide obedience training."

"Hmm." Enndolyn sounds doubtful, but Bae demonstrates. He whistles and Midnight suddenly appears at his feet, looking up at him. He taps his shoulder and with a flying leap she lands there. He points at the food cupboard. "Midnight! Mouse!" In two bounds she's in the cupboard rooting around.

The demonstration closes the deal. "A basket of scones every week for a month."

"Two baskets every week for two months."

"One basket a week for two months."

"Throw in a jar of clotted cream every week and we've got a deal."

Listening from his wheel, Rumple has to cough to keep from laughing aloud.

* * *

"Every father goes through this," Rumple points out as he sets Tiny into the basket that Bae had once woven for Midnight. Bae adds a bit of yarn and Tiny's favorite chasing stick to the basket.

"At least Guinevere will live next door." Bae picks up the basket, gives Tiny a warning shake of his finger when the kitten starts to climb out.

"Are you sure? I can take him."

"I'll do it. I'd like a little alone time with him anyway." He pauses in the doorway and promises, "When I come back I'll have scones and cream."

"And tonight we'll have Morraine over for dinner and you can present her with Guinevere. I'll fry the chicken."

"Thanks, Papa."

"Good lad," Rumple murmurs, watching his shoulder-slumped son trudge up the road to the bakery. "Growing up."

* * *

The first snowstorm comes. Rumple surveys his home: warm and tight, with a new roof and a cupboard full of food and another cupboard full of warm newly made clothes for a boy who's growing, thanks to the chicken, bread and cheese, and soft rolls that his father's earned for him this year, and scones that the boy earned for himself. In the hiding place under his pallet, the leather bag in which RUmple keeps his earnings from writing has grown heavier. Next spring, Rumple will make a deal with for two lambs. The Stiltskin men are making their way in the world.

Well, the men and the cat. Rumple leans on his cane to bend down to stroke her back. He wonders if she misses her babies. She doesn't act any different than before they left, but he's seen mother animals mourn when their babies die, so he supposes they have some capacity for sentiment. And yet in their wisdom, the mothers know when it's time for the youngsters to leave home and start lives of their own, and they don't cling the way some human mothers and fathers do.

"My day will come," he informs the cat. "And I won't cling, though it'll kill me to let him go. Fortunately it's years away."

The cat sets her paw on his face. He's not sure if she wishes to comfort him or push him away. Maybe both. That's what parenting is, after all: pulling in and pushing away at the same time.


	6. Livestock of the Year

Bae's been awfully quiet today, from the time he woke up (not unusual; he's slow to wake in the mornings) til now, as he's sitting across from his father and picking at his parsnips (the picking isn't unusual either; he hates parsnips). What is unusual is that it's suppertime and typically at this time of day it's a challenge as to which will occupy his mouth: his dinner or his reports of the day's adventures. Not even Midnight, who's winding in and out of Bae's feet, can change his mood.

"Not feeling well, son?" Rumple inquires.

Bae shakes his head and makes a valiant effort to finish those parsnips.

"Stomach ache?"

Bae shakes his head.

"Head ache?"

Bae shakes his head.

Then Rumple gets down to it. He knows his son too well not to recognize the symptoms. "Guilty conscience?"

Bae releases his spoon. "Yeah." He looks at his father sideways; that means whatever he's done, he's not sure how bad it is, but he's hopeful it's not punishment-worthy.

Rumple makes his voice gentle. "If you tell me now, it'll hurt less than if you let it grow."

"Yeah," Bae agrees reluctantly. "Maybe it's not wrong. Or maybe just a little wrong. Well, you know how the farmers buy stuff 'on tick'? It's kinda like that."

"They buy what they need in the spring against a promise to pay in the fall, after harvest," Rumple mulls it over, trying to suss out Bae's meaning. Then he gets it and his eyes widen. "You bought something on tick?"

"Kinda. I guess. Yeah." Bae reaches into the pouch he keeps tied to his tunic belt. Like most boys and men of his class, he keeps in this pouch the valuables he plans on using throughout the day. What he brings out, he conceals in his palm until at last he surrenders, opens the palm and lets the treasure slide out onto the table. It's a thin metal cylinder with an opening in one end and a hole at the top. It's a shiny and curious thing; Rumple doesn't fault him for wanting it.

"A whistle, is it?"

Bae places the opening in his mouth, puffs his cheeks and blows. Rumple can't hear a thing—but maybe that's because the cat is suddenly howling and rushing around in circles before she finally dives through her private door that leads her to freedom.

"What's wrong with her?" Rumple puzzles, then indicates the whistle. " It's broken."

"No, Papa, it works. Listen." He blows again, harder, and Lucas' dog Ruffian howls. "It's a special whistle that only dogs can hear. And I guess cats. Borin got it from the sheepdog trainer that came through yesterday, and I got it from him." He lays the whistle down and looks directly at his father, a little worried, a little hopeful. "I wanted to know if it would work on cats. I was just going to borrow it, but when I had it in my hand. . . ."

"I've bought a few things that way," Rumple admits. "What did you trade for it?"

"A cat."

Rumple's mouth falls open. "Not—?"

"No," Bae is insulted that his father would even think such a thing. "The pick of Midnight's next litter."

"But she's not even—Are you going to take the whistle back?"

Bae's voice shrinks. "I don't want to. Papa, it's an investment. Ruffian's going to have pups soon; me and Morraine can use this whistle to train 'em. Lucas might even pay us if we do good. And maybe I can train kittens with it, huh? Please let me keep it?"

Rumple picks up his mug and takes a thoughtful sip of tea. "Well, I guess we'd better take Midnight with us next time we go to Avonlea."

Bae grins and replaces the whistle in his pouch. "Thanks, Papa. Just think: this could make us rich!"

Years later, Rumple will recall that boast—and how, in a way he couldn't have imagined, Bae was proven right.

* * *

 **Three Years Later**

It's been three years since Midnight moved in.

The villagers are used to seeing her now, prowling the empty roads in the moonlight, weaving her way through thick forest brush, or catching an afternoon nap in an empty cart. She's introduced herself to their children, and many of the adults have introduced themselves to her as she's come to their homes to do her work. Eighteen of her children are happily housed with families throughout the village.

She still earns some harsh stares; a few people cross the street to get away from her. Her sleek black coat and color-changing eyes have them convinced she's either a carrier of evil magic or the product of it. When Bae expresses his frustration, Rumple reminds him that these are the same folk who believe that if an unoccupied rocking chair moves, it's a sign that someone will die soon, or that a knife dropped to the floor signifies the arrival of an unexpected guest. "Some people have no place to employ their imagination," he concludes, "so they put it into these folk tales."

"They ought to learn how to read," Bae says stoutly.

"You're right. Perhaps when you grow up, you'll open a school and teach them."

Every year at this time, at the end of harvest, the village celebrates. The farmers contribute food—in fact, they compete with each other to see who will make the most impressive contribution—and the taverns contribute barrels of beer (watered down in a bad year, but this year it's the good stuff), and those who have a homemade lute or a guitar or a drum or pipes provide the music and the young unmarrieds provide the dancing while the women roast corn and a hog over a bonfire and their husbands carry out benches and tables from the taverns, then flop down at them. There are jokes and card games and mumblety peg and chess for the adults, spitting contests and wrestling matches and footraces and tug-of-war for the kids. Rumple knows all this because he'd gone to the harvest festival once, when he was courting Milah. Bae knows all this because he's seen it several times from the open window of his house. He's never actually attended. Rumple has watched him as he's looked on longingly on the games and the food, and most of all, the other kids. He has wanted to slide a comforting arm around Bae's shoulder, but he realizes Bae needs to be allowed to feel his envy in private. Bae has to wear a brave face too, just as his papa does. Perhaps next year or the year after, Rumple wants to assure him, Bae will be big enough to go to the festival alone. Big enough to go alone, brave enough to glare down the biting comments and sneers of those who swear that cowardice is hereditary.

This year, as always, at sundown the benches and barrels are dragged out, the musicians tune up, kids draw circles in the dirt to mark their playground, old men light their pipes and younger men light the bonfire. Fort's three sons arrive with a hog that they've had roasting on a spit at home for two days solid. It takes both Tarrin and Jarin to carry the hog. Their father strolls along behind, accepting his neighbors' admiration for his generous contribution to the party. There's no question of who will be acclaimed the greatest festival provider this year.

Bae watches from the open doorway and Rumple watches Bae from the spinning wheel, the cat at his feet. Then there's a deep voice speaking to Bae, greeting him, and Bae answering, "Good evening, sir." As the boy steps aside, a shadow falls across the threshold, and for just a moment Rumple shudders. But it's not a hostile face that appears in the candlelight, nor a friendly one for that matter; it's Leofrik, who's neither hostile nor friendly with anyone, even, it's said, his own wife. He's a rather flat-emotioned man; what he lacks in expression he makes up for in appetite, though he's skinny as a cat's whisker.

"'Evenin', Stiltskin." Leofrik stops on the threshold, neither inside nor outside. He hasn't taken his cap off, but then, he's not known for his manners.

"Evening, s-Leofrik." Rumple stumbles a little on his greeting. He isn't sure if he should use "sir," as he's always been expected to, ever since his return from war, with every man in town feeling himself to be The Runner's better. But they've done a bit of business together; they've traded as equals, so Rumple takes a chance on using the man's name.

He needn't have worried. Leofrik doesn't notice; he's got one eye and one ear trained on the party forming out in the middle of town. "Some of the fellas was askin' after ya. They told me to fetch ya."

"Me?" The word escapes before Rumple can consider the consequences of revealing surprise.

"Yeah, you and the boy." Leforik points at Rumple's feet. "And her."

Rumple's brow furrows as he points down. "Her? The cat?"

"Yeah. I know she don't like noise and crowds and all, so Rulf brung the cage that he carries his huntin' hawk in." He nods at the cat. "She'll fit. It's just 'til the prizes is given. Then you can carry her home and come back to the feast."

"To the feast," Rumple echoes, wondering if this is some sort of trap.

Bae's mouth has dropped open. "What do you want a cat at a feast for?"

Leofrik looks back and forth at the two Stiltskins as if they must have water in their ears. "Like I says, for the prizes."

"What prizes?" Then Bae recalls his manners and adds, "Sir."

"You know; the ones we give out every festival." Leofrik thinks for a moment as he realizes, "Or maybe you don't. You ain't been at the festival in a couple of years, have ya?" The Stiltskin men don't answer; a reply would require an explanation. Leofrik decides to elaborate. "Well, we do. Biggest pumpkin, biggest hog, biggest fish caught, biggest lie told, like that. Best prize is for Livestock of the Year. Usually the biggest hog wins that, but this year, the town had another idea." He points again. "Her."

"Midnight?" Bae rushes in and drops to his knees to pet the winner. Dawning hope and excitement lighting his eyes, he looks up at his father. "Can we. . . .?" He doesn't dare to finish the question, as if letting it hang in midair will prevent it from being answered negatively.

There's no way Rumple could have refused those big brown eyes, even if he had wanted to, and oh, he doesn't want to. He's every bit as anxiously hopeful that their lives have turned a corner, that all the trades they've made over the past three years have improved more than just their living standards. With his heart in his throat, Rumple nods, then instructs Bae, "Wash your face first, son, and change your shirt."

Leofrik, not the most socially sensitive of men, half-turns toward the door. "I got a turkey drumstick back there waitin' to be eaten. See ya in a bit."

"In a bit," Rumple agrees, permitting his assigned escort to return to the party. He sorts through the clothes cupboard for clean tunics for himself and Bae. He doesn't have to inspect the garments: he knows every stain by heart. But he also knows nothing in this cupboard is frayed or ripped: he's always made sure of that. It wouldn't do for a spinner's son to walk about in torn clothes, nor would he give his only child less than the best he can afford. Clean shirts set aside, he pours a kettle of hot water into the wash tub along with the bucket of well water that Bae has hauled in, and the two of them strip down and wash thoroughly with their special-occasion olive oil soap that they'd once bartered a cat loan for. It takes extra time, but they wash their hair too, and scrub their teeth with rosemary ash. Bae bites back a complaint (he is, after all, ten years old and deserving of an adult's dignity) as Rumple inspects him behind the ears.

Rumple doesn't know how much time they'll spend at the festival—they may discover they aren't welcome after all and immediately come home—but if they are accepted, or at least left alone, they will at least be clean.

"All right then." As Bae collects Midnight in her traveling basket, Rumple gathers his walking stick (hand-carved by Bae last Yuletide and given with great pride as a gift) and squares his shoulders and opens the front door. He nods and Bae steps out, forgetfully moving too fast for Rumple to keep up, but Borin and some of the other guys have already drawn a circle in the dirt and are kneeling along its rim, ready to start a game of marbles.

Rumple lets him go. He hesitates on the fringes of the party, pretending to be taking in the music, the laughter, the scents, but in truth he's studying the faces, many of them now familiar, a few of them belonging to people he's welcome to socialize with, as long as they're alone—how these people will react to him in public could be another matter. His stomach growls in response to the aroma of pork turning on a spit, and his eyes stray longingly to the platters of roasted corn, pickled beets, grilled asparagus, buttered parnips, fresh-made bread, wheels of cheese, pots of honey and butter, and pies. Too late, Rumple realizes he should have brought something to contribute.

He wavers. He should go back home and get something. Or just go back home.

"Get a whiff of that hog, huh?" An arm drops heavily over his shoulder as a deep voice rumbles in his ear. "Queenie. Jarrin hand-raised her. Five hundred pounds." Fort shakes with laughter. "Wouldn't be surprised if we have to take leftovers home!"

Rumple notices Fort has a tankard in each hand and the tankard that's in the hand perched on Rumple's shoulder is tilted, spilling suds on Rumple's tunic. From the breath wafting from Fort's mouth into Rumple's face, the spinner realizes the farmer's first stop upon arriving to set up the spit was the bank of barrels contributed by the Hog's Head Tavern. But Fort isn't drunk, just pleasantly tipsy, so when Fort pushes him toward the bonfire for a closer look at the pig, Rumple allows himself to be guided. As they approach, various hands are thrust toward Rumple, along with "glad you could make it" and "good to see ya" greetings.

Rumple jerks back from the first hand reaching for him. But after blinking, he realizes it's only Lucas, so he shakes the hand. Then it's Jarrin and Rulf and Rowntree and Falk, until Rumple feels downright welcome and he comes closer to draw in the aroma of roasting pork and warm himself in the glow of the fire and friendship. They're chatting—Rumple has never been one for chitchat but he knows many of these men well enough to ask after their families and their trades—and quaffing and chewing on hunks of bread they've managed to swipe behind their wives' backs. Rumple even finds his good foot tapping to the music and in his peripheral vision he watches the young couples dance. Someday Bae will be out there with them, he thinks, and then he realizes it's the most confident notion he's had in years.

Rulf nudges Lucas and winks at the other men. "How's the fishin' been, Luc?"

It's an invitation Lucas can't resist. He plunges in to a string of fish stories, each subsequent fish bigger than its predecessors. The men are soon roaring with laughter, and Rumple at first feels uncomfortable for his neighbor, but Lucas isn't humiliated at all for being caught in his lies. In fact, Rumple figures out, none of these men consider Lucas' fish stories to be lies; they are folk tales that compete with the fish stories of previous years, just as the farmers compete to have the biggest pig at the festival. These stories are Lucas' contribution to the festival, as entertaining to the men as the dancing and the music are. Lucas is the poor man's jester.

As the moon rises, Jarrin plunges his knife deep into the pig, then withdraws it and tastes the slice of meat he's carved off. He blows on his burnt fingers, then raises his knife into the air and declares, "Let the feast begin!" The crowd has been waiting for this announcement—as the provider of the sow, it's Jarrin's right and responsibility to make it—and with shouts they rush at the food tables. They sit according to their gender, men at one table, women at another, boys at a third, and girls at the fourth. Once the meal is underway, the courting couples will find excuses to come together for stolen moments, until, at the meal's end, they can find each other again for dancing.

Jarrin remains at the spit, carving, while his brothers hurry back and forth carrying pork-laden platters to the diners. Midway through the meal, Fort rises from the table, patting his full belly, and carries a filled tankard to his thirsty son. He takes Jarrin's place at the bonfire, the two men laughing because although Jarrin's been carving for more than an hour, there's still a lot of meat left on the hog. "Go on and eat," Fort instructs. "You earned it, boy."

Jarrin slides onto the bench between Rumple and Lucas. He's sweating from the heat of the bonfire, but those seated around him don't mind: he smells wonderful, of spices and wood smoke.

Rumple eats to busting, and drinks (though he's careful not to exceed two tankards; he has a son to serve as an example for) and laughs until his throat is sore. Seated across from him and at either end are men who frown and grumble whenever they make eye contact with him; he will never win them over. He has to accept that as a fact of his life, just as he has to accept the fact that he has friends, and he needs to place his confidence in that and trust these few men to stand beside him if trouble develops. Not that he expects it will: his enemies' bellies are full too, and the music and the fish stories distract them from their righteous indignation at sharing a meal with The Runner.

His friends' loyalty is put to a slight test when Rumple reaches across the table for a turkey leg and bumps into a catchpole, who stabs at his hand—unsuccessfully; Rumple snatches his hand away in time. "Mind yer minners, ya damn deserter."

Rowntree, who's seated beside the catchpole, shoves him and the punk falls backward off the bench. "Mind _yer_ 'minners,' ya chicken catcher."

Hauling himself to his feet, the catchpole sways but manages to point in Rumple's direction. "Who does he think he is, that son of a witch, thinkin' he's better than us, with his readin' and writin'—"

Rulf rises and dumps a pitcher of water over the man's head, then shoves him toward the well. "Go soak yer head in the well and sober up, Chicken Catcher, 'fore I dump you in it."

A second man appears to lead the offender away. Then Lucas steps in with more tall tales and pretty soon nobody remembers the incident, except Rumple, who looks at Rulf and Rowntree with new eyes.

They eat, they drink, they laugh, they stand and stretch and return to the bonfire for more stories and more beer. Some of the women wander over and draw their men away to dance. In the shadows Rumple spots some couples—not all of them young—kissing. This night competes with his wedding reception as the most entertaining party of his life, Rumple decides. That opinion is about to change.

The music stops in mid-song and everyone goes quiet. Even the shadow kissers stop what they're doing to watch a white carriage drawn by two white horses stop in the road. A footman hops off the driver's bench, pulls out a stepstool, opens the carriage door and hands out three people, all of them finely dressed. Rulf identifies the crest on the carriage door: "It's the Duke!"

"Then one of them ducks mus' be the Duchess," Fort surmises. "Wonder which one?" In firelight the ladies' gowns appear to glow and the women themselves appear to float as they approach the head of the first table. Everyone rises, even the kids and the elderly, for these are nobles.

The sheriff comes forward and bows. "Your Graces, welcome to our harvest festival." He snaps his fingers and two men scramble to fill tankards with ale for the visitors.

The Duke raises his tankard to the air and addresses the crowd. "Good evening, gentlefolk. I apologize for our late arrival, but I had news from the warfront that required my attention before we could depart. The Duchess and I"—he holds out his hand and the older of the two women steps forward to take it—"congratulate you on another profitable harvest, and we wish you many more to come. And now, if we are not too late, we will make the awards?" He raises his eyebrow at the sheriff, who nods and snaps his fingers, and another man brings forth a wooden box. The sheriff opens it to reveal a half-dozen gold coins pierced through with blue ribbons.

"I've brought a special treat," the Duke declares, holding out his left hand. The younger woman steps forward to accept his hand, though she remains apart from him, as if he smells bad or she fears he might bite her. A murmur rolls through the crowd as the Duke introduces her, "Her Highness the Princess Belle, who's come all the way from Avonlea just to share in this moment."

Rumple will one day learn that's not true: Belle had actually traveled from Avonlea to the Duke's castle in Faysea for the purpose of discussing the ogre problem. The Duke, not trusting a woman's intelligence in matters of war, filled his gullet while she talked, then spent most of last evening speaking to the guardsman who had accompanied her. In the Duke's view, the princess' value lay not in her trained mind (for, without a son to inherit the kingdom, Maurice had prepared his daughter to assume the throne) but in her pretty face and, more importantly, her title, which he would show off at various festivals around his duchy for the duration of her visit. She'd allowed herself to be shuttled from town to town only because she hoped that in the confines of a carriage, Cedric would finally listen to her.

At the Duke's words, "a treat," Belle frowns (Rumple will one day learn that that term made her feel like a creampuff or an éclair). But as the villagers bow to her, she inclines her head and murmurs, "Good evening. From my father the King, I bring you greetings and congratulations on these, the bountiful fruits of your labors." She spreads her hands over the heavily laden platters remaining on the tables. The crowd applauds and someone crudely whistles, which causes the Duchess to elevate her nose, but the Princess grins.

"And now, on to the awards." She then clears her throat and looks at the sheriff expectantly; the sheriff hands her a list (written out by Morraine, since the sheriff can't write). "For biggest vegetable crop. . . ."

Rumple barely hears her. He's too busy staring at her, thinking how glorious she is, how graceful, how her eyes sparkle in the firelight and her smile is genuine as she bestows it and the award on the winner. She's just as glorious and graceful and genuine now as in the moment he first saw her, on the balcony of her castle, three years ago. He may be lame and gray, but he feels like a prince just to stand in her presence. Bae is uncharacteristically silent as he rushes up to stand behind Rumple with the cat basket under his arm.

"For biggest hog, Jarrin." The big lad blushes as the princess drapes his prize medallion around his neck. When he returns to his brothers, they nudge him and ruffle his hair.

The ribbon granting becomes a song in her musical voice. Rumple memorizes not the words, but the tones, so he can remember her voice always. It isn't just her royalty or her beauty or her perfect manners or her youth, he realizes later when he goes to bed and stares up at the ceiling; it's a compassion he sees in her eyes—she sincerely likes these people, though they're common as dirt. And it's a passion that gives her head a certain tilt and her spine a strength. He can imagine himself fighting alongside her against ogres and other villains— _alongside_ her, not in front of her, for she, brave girl, would be wielding a fighting staff as he attacked with sword and dagger. And as her hands rest a moment on Fort's shoulders after placing a ribbon around his neck, Rumple imagines those hands stroking his own hair away from his face.

Then he shakes his head and quaffs his beer to clear away the daydream. She continues with the awards, speaking quiet words to each winner, giving them a moment they will remember long after the pride of their accomplishment has dissipated.

"And the final award: for Livestock of the Year, Midnight." She's looking up and around, apparently expecting a bull or ram.

"You go, Bae. Midnight's yours," Rumple bends to whisper.

In a flash Bae and his basket stand beside the princess. "Here, Your Gr—Your Maj—here, Princess!" Bae might not know the proper form of address, but he knows without a doubt which animal deserves this award. He holds the basket up with pride. Midnight's black fur blends into the night, but her eyes, appearing green in the firelight, are open wide and she sits up straight in her basket.

"May I?" the princess asks, and Bae nods. Carefully Belle lifts the cat from the basket and cradles her just a moment, then sets her back in the basket and eases the prize ribbon around the cat's neck. Midnight smacks the coin with one paw, then the other, and it soon becomes a toy for her to bat between her paws. The Duke and Duchess scowl at this lack of respect for royalty, but Belle and Bae chuckle together. Then Belle whispers congratulations to the boy and squeezes his shoulder before he returns to his papa.

"She smells like flowers," Bae gushes. "And she likes our cat." He's half in love.

He's not the only one.

The princess and her entourage are gone moments later, declining to stay for the food and the music (though the driver snatches a pair of apples for the horses). The village slowly resumes the festivities, but some of the men, including Rumple, fill their tankards and sit down again, not to talk or eat but to stare at the now empty road.

"Never seen nothin' so beauteous," someone breathes.

"Pretty as a newborn lamb."

"Eyes as bright as these gold coins." Jarrin shows his prize off.

"Tiny little thing, though."

"Yeah, but when she's talkin' she looks tall. Y'know what I mean?"

"That was somethin'."

"Yeah. That was somethin'."

All up and down the table, the villagers sigh.


	7. Toward Avonlea

Harvests come and go, festivals come and go. The crops aren't always are bountiful as in the year that the princess visited, but they're good enough. The village is comfortable, though it's losing its young men to war. All three of Fort's boys go, along with all of Rowntree's and a dozen more from the village over the next four years. Only two come back, Rulf with a missing arm (he claims he can't remember how he lost it, but he cries into his beer whenever he visits the Hog's Head) and Rowntree's boy, whose mind isn't sound any more. As the boys go, their mothers and sisters take on the work in the field.

There's talk that the battlefront is shifting westward toward the Frontlands. The watch around the King's castle is doubled, as Rumple and Bae notice when they go to Avonlea to sell their goods and sometimes, to allow Midnight to find a mate.

Sometimes they bring back a barn cat or two, to trade. Although the village's cat population is growing through Midnight and her offspring, it isn't healthy to have just one bloodline, Rumple explains, and Bae, who works sometimes with Lucas' sheep and Fort's hogs, understands. He understands a lot more these days, as he watches the men of his village march off with the troops.

Bae and Morraine's dog training business goes nowhere, mostly because Bae is distracted by war stories and Morraine is distracted by Bae. Rumple becomes increasingly frustrated: despite the evidence to the contrary by the broken and missing sons of neighbors, as well as by his own father's permanently damaged knee, Bae fantasizes about swords and arrows and hometown parades.

"When I'm seventeen—"

* * *

 **Three Years Later**

Bae slumps back in his chair, patting his belly. A belch is forming in his throat, but a sharp frown from his father reminds him that they have a guest, so he squelches the belch, straightens in his chair and sips his tea like a gentleman (or, rather, like his papa imagines a gentleman to comport himself. Of course, Rumple has never dined with anyone whose rank so far exceeds his own, so he doesn't know for sure).

Morraine is quieter than usual, even a little nervous, as she cuts into a potato. Then she stares at the tip of the knife. Normally she'd just spear up the potato slice with her knife. That's how everybody in the village eats, using the knife to manage solid foods and the spoon for soups and stews. But things are different tonight: napkins (though they be handmade), a new mug, a new tunic for Bae; when he leans forward to fill her mug with barley tea (another first; Bae's never poured tea for her), she catches the scent of wood ash soap—he'd actually bathed, and on a weekday! She notices that the back of his head is a little damp—he must have washed his hair, too.

So Morraine watches Rumple from the corner of her eye to see how he's going to bring _his_ potato to his mouth. When he spears the vegetable with his knife, she sighs in relief and copies the gesture. She's heard that in Duke Cedric's castle, diners use a utensil that looks like a little pitchfork, but that is highly unusual, even for the nobles; it's said not even King Maurice uses these undersized pitchforks. The local clergyman who'd shared that bit of gossip with Lucas had turned up his nose. "Anyone who thinks he's better than the King needs to be taken down a peg. The Lord gave us fingers for eating, and if that's good enough for the Lord, it should be good enough for the Duke."

Morraine has taken meals in Bae's house for longer than she can remember. Gretchen says that the two children, only two weeks apart in age, used to practice their crawling on this very rug while their mothers sewed and gossiped. Through the thin walls of their homes, the children have overhead every parental argument, every tantrum, and every broken-hearted sob that passed within the two families. Morraine has even seen Bae naked (many years ago, of course, when Rumple would bathe him outside on a summer's eve). This sudden new formality is not only unfamiliar, it's unnatural, and she doesn't like it one bit. It makes her feel inadequate, something lesser than her best friend, with whom she's shared everything from teething toys to secrets. It makes her wonder if she's losing him.

So she swallows her potato and lets her knife fall with a clatter, and she folds her arms and scowls, first at Bae, then at Rumple. "All right, what's going on here?"

The Stiltskin men set down their own knives and with a reminding nudge from his father, Bae swipes at his mouth with his napkin. "We're practicin'."

"Practicin' what?" she demands.

"Well, you know we went to Avonlea yesterday."

"So?" Trips to Maurice's castle, however impressive, are quarterly occurrences for Rumple. That's where he makes the bulk of his sales. Then suddenly Morraine's eyes widen. "Did you meet the King?" She and Bae have often daydreamed of that possibility.

"No," Bae admits, but his grin broadens. "But almost as good. Kinda better. See, while Papa was making his deal, I saw these soldiers out on the grounds, practicin' with their swords, two by two. Except one of the soldiers didn't have anyone to practice with."

"That's no good," Morraine grumbled.

"That's what I said to him."

"You didn't!" Morraine gasps. "Bae! A _royal soldier_!"

Rumple shakes his head in bewilderment. "It wasn't just a soldier, Morraine. It was a second lieutenant of the royal guard. I've warned you, Bae, sometimes your impetuousness will get you into trouble."

"Well, this time it got me a job." A small frown from Rumple, displeased at his backtalk, makes Bae sputter. "Sorry, Papa." He continues his story. "Lieutenant Fendral said he liked my initiative and my quickness, though I wasn't much of a swordsman. I said that was because I only ever had sticks to fight with. So he asked me my name and my father's name, and when I told him, he said, 'Oh yeah, the spinner.' 'Cause, you know, the royal guards are supposed to know everyone who's let into the castle. Then he said, 'Come with me,' and he took me to the barracks and he gave me a mug of mead and a peach, and we talked about swords and the army and stuff. I told him I've always wanted to be a soldier, and he said, he always wanted to be a priest, but he's the second son of an earl, so he had to join the army. His little brother will be the priest."

Morraine understands. That's one difference between the children of nobles and the children of merchants and peasants: the nobles are ascribed professions based on birth order. Poorer children have a bit more freedom in selecting occupations—boys, anyway; girls are expected to marry and assist their husbands in the family vocation. She plans to break that mold.

As does Bae. "I asked him how come all the other guardsmen have squires to serve them but he doesn't, and he said, he's the newest; he just got promoted out of the regular army. Well, that is, his father bought him a lieutenancy so that he wouldn't have to go fight ogres. He also said there aren't enough squires any more. The nobles that have boys of the right age are all sending them off to schools in other kingdoms, to keep them safe. The Ogre War is heatin' up and the army's taking more soldiers."

"It's an impossible situation," Rumple growls around a chicken leg. "We've known for a decade now that we can't win. The ogres are three times as big as the average man."

"My papa says they're cannibals." Morraine looks to Rumple for confirmation.

Rumple busies himself with his tea so that he doesn't have to reply.

Bae rescues the conversation by continuing his tale. "Anyway, Lieutenant Fendral gave me another peach for the road home, and then went to speak to Papa. And guess what?" Bae spread his arms out. "I'm going to be a squire! I'm to report on my fourteenth birthday."

"Oh, Bae," Morraine moans. "That's next month."

Bae nods eagerly. "Papa bought me new clothes to get ready, and I'm reading up on the army and stuff." He glares at his napkin. "And practicin' my manners, 'cause, you know, that kind of stuff is important when you work for the King."

Morraine shares a sinking look with Rumple. They're both wondering how he will get along without his son, who's been not only his assistant all these years, but also his emotional support. She lowers her gaze to her plate, for Bae has been such a fixture in her life she can't imagine living without him. Until recently, she's thought of him as a brother of sorts; now that they are turning fourteen, she's been seeing him with fresh eyes.

As he's grown older, he's begun to pick up some of his father's perceptiveness. Bae can see the loneliness coming up in her eyes. "I won't be that far away. I can come back for three days every month, Fendral says."

"But the ogres are moving across Aramore, Papa says," she protests. "Toward Avonlea."

Bae shrugs. He's listened avidly to all the village stories about ogres, but only a handful of people here have actually seen one, so his image of the monsters is vague. His papa has never spoken of his experiences at war, but he gathers it was pretty horrible; still, Bae sees a big difference between his quiet, humble father—why did the army draft a lame man, anyway?—and himself, headstrong and adventurous. "I'll be all right," he assures them. "I'll be defending the castle. Who knows? I might even rescue the princess."

"You'll be serving the lieutenant," Rumple reminds him. "Cleaning his tack, grooming his horse, washing his uniform, fetching and carrying. You won't be fighting."

"Not at first, but after I get trained, and when I'm a little older—" Then he sees the shock in his father's eyes and he clamps his mouth shut. He realizes then, whatever dreams of swords and bows he has for himself, he needs to temper when he talks to his father, lest he scare the poor man to death. He tries to make light of it all by holding out his plate. "Can I have some more pork, Papa? I'm gonna need all the meat I can get, to do all that fetching and carrying."

"Those swords are heavy," Morraine agrees. "I got to lift one once. Bae, will you have your own sword?"

So the children—and in Rumple's eyes, they are still children, though he supposes he should change that point of view now—chatter and dream, and he washes the dishes, and then with the cat on his lap he sits beside the fire and stares into the flames, remembering a frosty field on a moonless night long ago, when the smell of burnt flesh and the rumbling laughter of ogres drifted for miles on a strong wind, and he and his leather-clad companions huddled together against the cold of their own fear.

And a sledgehammer called to him, promising a way back to Bae.

* * *

He's vowed he wouldn't. He not only loves his son completely, he admires him, even envies him a little, the boy's ability to shrug off cutting remarks and haughty glances. And he takes pride in the fact that this is the child he raised, mostly alone, but with some assistance from Lucas and Gretchen. The heavy price exacted by the sledgehammer was worth it. Every day, it's worth it.

But as Bae carefully folds his new clothes to go into his new knapsack, Rumple drops his hands from the wheel and blurts, "You haven't been drafted."

"Huh?" Bae throws a puzzled glance at his father.

"You haven't been drafted. You don't have to go. No one will come for you, if you stay here."

"I said I would." Bae blinks, as if his word to Fendral should be seen as a bond as compelling as a draft notice.

Rumple hangs his head, shamed by his own son's honor. He rises and fills their traveling jug with water, and fills a sack with bread, dried pork and apples.

"There'll be a lot of books," Bae says soothingly. "Fendral says hardly anybody at the castle can read, but the princess is trying to change that. She holds classes, and all the pages have to attend. Fendral says she'd probably be glad to let me borrow from the castle library."

Rumple smiles faintly as he ties the jug to the food sack and slings it over his shoulder. "Time to go, son."

Borin, Isolde, Morraine, Gretchen and Lucas are waiting outside. Lucas bestows upon Bae a parting gift: a pocket knife that he's carried for years. "Good for cuttin' leather, guttin' fish, or when you get bored, whittlin'."

Gretchen gives him a sack of small cakes and a kiss. "You've been—" she can't finish over her tears.

The children walk with Rumple and Bae through the center of the village, passing some familiar faces along the way, a few of them friendly; a few of the unfriendlies give Bae a respectful nod. Everyone in town knows where he's going and why.

When the little parade comes to the crossroads, they stop. Borin shakes Bae's hand like a man. "Kill an ogre for me, 'Fire." Isolde covers her sadness with a quip: "Say hi to the Queen for me." And Morraine grasps Bae's face and plants a lingering kiss on his lips. Rumple suspects it's not the first time; he hopes it won't be the last.

They walk, as they have many times before, up the hill that leads out of the village.

Bae walks in long strides, head up, practicing again for his new profession, until he realizes his father is limping hard to keep up. He slows and they walk in silence.

At the castle gate, Bae reminds them both, "I'll come home in thirty days."

"I could meet you here then, so you don't have to walk home alone."

"I can do it, Papa."

Rumple wants to object, but Bae's face is shining and Rumple won't take this moment away from him. "See you in thirty days, then." He slides his free arm around the boy's shoulders; Bae allows it, though he reddens a little when a cavalryman rides past. Bae's mind is fixed entirely on the future, so he doesn't see that this is an ending, but Rumple knows it is. It's an end to fireside spinning lessons and awkward talks about the birds and the bees. It's an end to reading lessons and trips to the market and endless "why" questions and endless "pick up your clothes, Bae" warnings. It's an end to soothing nightmares in the middle of the night. It's an end to patching up trousers and knees torn by falls from trees. It's an end to a time wonderful and nerve-wracking, a time that, if he's lucky, Bae will know again, from the father's side, but that Rumple will never know again.

This is life. All things change, grow old, pass away. Rumple knows this; Bae will have to learn it.

Rumple hugs him. Then Bae does a manly thing: he reaches across—because he's as tall as his father now—and he kisses Rumple's rough cheek. "Thank you," Rumple whispers.

Already Bae's attention has wandered to the barracks, where a squad of soldiers is exiting. A captain barks and they fall into formation. "Best get to work, son." Rumple lets him go.

* * *

The first day back home without Bae is the hardest. Rumple had always assumed that the boy depended upon him; he's now come round to see that he depended upon the boy just as much. There is work to do, of course, tidying the house, washing clothes, preparing supper, spinning—it goes so much slower without company, and it feels almost pointless. So he goes about his chores, and his ankle drags from the long walk back from Avonlea. He reminds himself that this is his opportunity at last to give the house the thorough cleaning he'd always planned to but never found the time for. He reminds himself Bae will be home in just thirty days. He speculates on how Bae will see this house, this village, his father, when he returns after a month living an adult's life. Much like he himself felt, he supposes, when he returned to visit the spinsters who raised him after he'd gone out on his own at age fifteen. Everything will seem to Bae old fashioned and small. . . even his father.

Rumple completes the washing, but his ankle throbs and there's a lump in his throat that just won't go away, so he decides to make an early night of it. He settles for tea and a slice of bread slathered with cheese for his supper. The cat reappears after a hunting trip and curls up on Bae's pallet. He watches her wash her face as he washes the knife and mug. Her belly rises and falls with a sigh and she stretches out on Bae's pillow. He wonders if she's expecting Bae to come busting into the house, as he often does this time of day, now that he has friends to socialize with. How long will it be before she worries that he's not coming back? Or will she accept the change gracefully, just as she accepted her own offspring going out into the world?

He sweeps the rug, and that's all the energy he has left for today. Picking up a book, he drops into his rocking chair to read in the remaining daylight. As she so often does, the cat takes that as an invitation to jump up into his lap. She falls asleep promptly; she's had a long day too.

A hand drops onto his shoulder, startling him, but Midnight is unfazed. She cocks her head up at the visitor, stretches, kneads her master's thighs, then settles back down for yet another nap.

"Sorry." Morraine draws up a stool besides his chair and seats herself, a book in her lap. "I know Bae used to read to you while you spin at night, so I thought I'd pitch in."

"You're right." Rumple stands, the cat leaping deftly to the rug. "I should get back to work." He limps to his bench and picks up a handful of roving. "What book have you there?"

"The first book that Papa ever bought for me." The book appears new; there are so few books in this village, she takes extra special care of hers. "It's about a little boy who lives in the desert and rides camels."

"I remember. You and Bae would read it over and over."

"Yeah." She opens to the first page. "I still like it." She begins to read.

Though the story is full of action and strange creatures, her voice soothes him. He closes his eyes as he spins. At his feet the cat purrs.

* * *

The second day without Bae is the hardest. The cat is already gone on her neighborhood patrol when he awakens, in the dawn as usual, but he has no one to cook breakfast for and no one to awaken. He eats a leftover potato and sits down to spin, but he can't find that half-aware state that he likes to let the spinning take him to.

When darkness falls, the cat flops onto Bae's pillow and grooms herself slowly, as if waiting for her boy to return home so they can fall asleep together. Rumple nods off before she does.

* * *

The third day without Bae is the hardest.


	8. Letters and Library Books

People—Fort, Lucas and Gretchen, Borin—come by to say hello—so they claim; they're checking up on him. At first, Morraine comes by most evenings to read to him, but her mother needs her at home and so the visits slack off. She openly admits it's hard for her to be in Bae's house without Bae being there. Everything in the house holds a memory.

On the seventeenth day there's a letter. A messenger traveling from Avonlea to Midas' kingdom stops to rest overnight in the village, which now is large enough, King Maurice wagers, to bear a name: Ramsgate. He bears important news: a phalanx of ogres, having demolished most of Maurice's southern seaboard, is moving northward, in the direction of the most populated areas of the Kingdom of Aramore. The messenger carries a letter pleading for Midas' military assistance. The messenger has agreed to carry letters home for castle staff and soldiers whose families happen to live in the villages through which he will ride.

The letter is much too short and grows no longer in the re-reading of it to Morraine, then to her parents, then to Fort, and at last to the cat. There's barely two pages and both of them are full of details pertaining to Bae's daily life in the barracks. Rumple finds every detail fascinating.

"The cooks remember me from when we came here to sell our thread," he writes, "and so on my first evening here, they invited me into the kitchen for a little supper. As I ate—pheasant, Papa! That the King shot with his own arrow. As I ate, a beautiful Lady came galloping down the back stairs like a filly in the meadow on the first day of spring. I'm learning a lot about horses, Papa. Every guardsman is assigned one and I take care of Fendral's, a blood bay with a white stocking. Anyway, the Lady—if I didn't know from how she was dressed that she was a Lady, I would have known by the way the cooks curtseyed to her, but after that they chattered away with her like they'd known her all her life and they probably do. I knew I'd seen her before. It took me a minute to remember, but then I did: it was Princess Belle from the harvest festival. Remember, Papa? She gave the Livestock of the Year award to Midnight. And there she was, sitting down at the table across from me, and eating the same chicken pie I was, and talking to me like she was a regular person.

"She had a dress much too fine for outdoors but there was mud on her boots and she admitted she'd been out riding and now she was famished. They prepared her a plate but warned her not to spoil her dinner because His Majesty had ordered supper to be served at eight. While we ate, the Lady talked and talked with the cooks and she asked me who I was and how did I like my job and the castle and such. I told her I liked it fine as much as I could see of it, which was just the kitchen because I'm just a squire. She laughed and said if a person could see only one room in the castle, the kitchen would be the second-best one to see, but the best would be the library. She told me the shelves stretch all the way to the ceiling and her family has been collecting books for more than a hundred years, and when she said 'My family' I knew who she was, not just a lady-in-waiting or something like that. She's the princess, Papa! So beautiful and kind. She asked if I could read and before I could answer she said everyone should, she's made a school at the castle for all the kids here to learn their numbers and their letters. I said I could already read, and she said well then, you must see the library sometime and you can borrow a book. Then she ran off because she had to dress for dinner. Isn't that nice? I can't wait to see the library.

"Don't forget I'll be home at the end of the month for two days.

"Love, Baelfire"

* * *

As nighttime falls, Rumple stirs, suddenly realizing that he hasn't spun in hours and, in fact, the cat has sneaked up into his lap and fallen asleep. He chastises himself; he has a few vices, but sloth has never been one. He's fallen behind in his chores quite a lot lately, distracted by strangers galloping through town—they seldom stop; they're headed for larger towns—and by the faint scent of burning flesh that occasionally blows in on strong northerly winds.

He seldom sleeps these days, just stumbles about in an exhausted stupor until his body can't hold up any more and he lapses into a floating numbness as he's spinning or writing a contract or washing dishes. This war has been going on for as long as he can remember, but it's coming closer. He worries that Bae will be pulled from the home guard and sent off to the front, even though he's just fourteen.

The cat suddenly leaps from his lap and ambles over to her personal door, but she doesn't pass through it; she seats herself there, her tail wrapped neatly around her body, her nose elevated. She's frozen there for nearly an hour before Rumple hears running footfalls thudding along the road, then a shout: "Papa! Papa, I'm—" The voice drops to a loud whisper as Bae realizes he's waking the neighbors. The door flies open and the greeting concludes, "Home."

Bae tosses his knapsack aside and opens his arms as his father sweeps into them and his cat rubs against his boots. Bae clears his throat when the hug goes on too long. Rumple reluctantly breaks it off but keeps his hands on the boy's shoulders as he draws back to inspect Bae for injuries. "Papa," Bae says in a cautionary tone, "it's only been a month."

"Feels like years," Rumple mumbles in embarrassment.

"Me too," Bae admits. He breaks the sentimental moment by wandering to the hearth and peering in the cookpot. "Mmm, I'm starved." As Rumple brings a bowl down from the cupboard, Bae adds, least his father misinterpret the comment, "Not that they don't feed us. We eat great. Papa, they feed us _beef_! The castle has its own herd of cattle."

"Cattle?" Rumple recalls seeing the beasts in a distant meadow during one of his visits to Avonlea, but he's never seen one close up, let alone tasted their meat. No one in this county ever has.

"Yeah!" Bae accepts the filled bowl and flops down at the table. "Story goes that Queen Colette introduced 'em to the Enchanted Forest. They were part of her dowry when she married Maurice." Bae stuffs a spoonful of carrot into his mouth but continues to chatter and Rumple doesn't correct his manners. "I seen—saw—her a couple of times. Never talked to her yet, but she seems nice. She's always got a book in her hand, sometimes two. And the King, he comes out to the field to watch us train. We see him a couple times a week. His father was a general—took the throne through war—so Maurice has a lot of respect for us, though he's never been to battle himself. Calls us his 'fighting men.'" Bae's chest puffs. "When we stop to rest and clean our swords, he comes over and talks to us. Tells us stories about the great battles of history. And he always compliments us and tells us how proud he is to have the finest guard in all the realm."

Rumple has been preparing a mug of tea for Bae, but pauses in mid-pour. "What do you mean, 'watch _us_ train'? Oh, Bae, they haven't made you a soldier—"

"No." Bae makes a mouth, annoyed to be caught in an exaggeration. "I mean. . . no, I'm still just a squire. But it's how we talk. It's 'we,' 'cause we're all in this together, you know? And when I'm eighteen, they'll let me join the army." He catches the worry rising in his father's eyes—given their living circumstances, Bae learned from infancy to pay close attention to his father's eyes—and he changes the subject. "Anyway, Maurice is this big guy, bigger than any of the generals." Bae stands and stretches his arm over his head to suggest a great height, then he sits down and spoons up another mouthful of stew. "Biggest man I ever saw, bigger than Fort and all his sons. I don't know why he never led the army. He knows all about weaponry and military history and stuff. Fendral says it's probably because his father was already king when he was born, and being an only son, he was kinda sheltered. Anyway, we—I mean the whole army—we love him and if he said 'March to the moon,' that's what we'd do."

"You don't refer to him as 'Maurice' in his presence, surely?"

"Naw, of course not. But we kinda feel like we could. Can I have more stew?" He hands the well-scraped bowl to Rumple, who fills it to the brim. "All the guardsmen are good guys—well, almost, except for this one. He came from King George's army and he thinks he's better than us. He used to slap his squire around, says that's how to keep us boys in line, but the general put him in prison for two weeks for doing that so he stopped. But he's still mean. He called me a 'backwater boob' until Fendral threatened to duel him for it. But everyone else is good, 'specially Fendral. He wants all his equipment to be perfect, but he taught me what to do, and he doesn't mind it when I read after I finish my chores. He says our King is proof of the value of book learning."

"I'm glad you have a good master," Rumple says.

"I saved the best one for last." This person is so important in Bae's mind that he sets his spoon down and swallows before describing her. "You remember the Princess? Princess Belle, I mean. There are two others, her younger sisters, but they don't live around here. They're married to foreign princes."

"Belle." Rumple's voice softens and his eyes glaze as he remembers the best night of his life.

"I see her around the castle a lot. In fact, she asked me to help her teach the kids to read—she wants all the kids in the kingdom to go to school, but for now it's just the ones who live on the castle grounds. I help her two times a week. Papa, they let me go into the castle! Not the private quarters, of course, or the throne room, but I can go anywhere on the ground floor, and that's where Princess Belle has her school. Oh, and she lets me go into the library—that's on the second floor—any time I want and borrow any of the books I want, for as long as I want. But I never take more than one because I don't want to maybe lose one. I have one in my pack—when I told her you taught me to read, she said I could pick out a book to bring back to you, to borrow as long as you like."

"That's very generous. What's she like?" Rumple can't squelch his smile.

"She's not princessy, except when she's doing princess stuff, you know? In her school, she's patient with the slow kids but she can get mad when the older kids tease the little guys and then she grabs them by the ear and puts them in the corner. Even if they're bigger than her—she's pretty short. It's when she's in the kitchen, though, that I like her best. When it's just us—me and her and the cooks and the scullery maids—she takes off her shoes and sits by the fire with her feet propped up on a stool and she talks to us like we're friends. The head cook calls her 'my sweet girl' and bakes special pastries for her. I get to call her 'Belle.' She said so. Well, just when we're in the kitchen, 'cause, you know, out there we got to show respect."

"I know you _always_ show respect for women," Rumple says.

"Yeah, but I mean, decorum. We talk about all kinds of stuff: the school and books and people at the castle, but she wants to know about you and Morraine and Borin and Midnight and everybody here. She's real curious, Belle is, especially about people. Oh! And she says she remembers you from the festival. She says you seemed like a good father. She says you have kind eyes."

Rumple blushes. Even though the compliment comes by proxy, it flusters him; it's been many years since a woman perceived him as a man, instead of a father or a neighbor. For just a moment, he misses Milah. He shakes himself out of the reverie. "What else?"

Bae's eyes sparkle. "She cusses."

"What?"

"Yeah. Not in public, but in the kitchen, when she's talking about some of the princes that are courting her—she says they're either money grubbers or bully boys and she despises them all. Or when she's talking about the war, especially because her father can't get the other kings to work together. She says if they would, they could defeat the ogres, but they're all like turtles, hiding their heads in their shells. But Midas did send some troops to join ours at the front, so that's a good first step." Bae shakes his head thoughtfully. "She's smart, Belle is. Not just book smart. People smart."

"The kingdom has much to look forward to. She'll make a good ruler."

"Papa, can I tell you a secret?"

Rumple leans forward. His son is still his friend, despite the distance between them caused by the changes Bae is going through. "Sure."

"When I'm grown up, I want to be the Captain of the Guard, so I can look out for her."

"I don't blame you a bit, son."

* * *

Bae and Morraine are just fourteen, so Rumple and Lucas keep an eye on them from a distance as the young couple walk hand in hand through the woods, picking berries for a pie. Just fourteen going on forty, Rumple thinks as he walks a pace behind them, the cat on his shoulder, when they escort Bae to the crossroads at the end of his visit. Rumple permits the couple to kiss goodbye, a quick brush of lips. He permits it because the war is creeping closer and who can see the future?

* * *

Bae still walks home once a month, faithfully, to visit his father, his friends and his cat. He brings a borrowed book every time to leave with Rumple and takes back to the castle the previous borrowing. He also brings treats from the castle cook, widely acknowledged to be the finest baker in Misthaven. He brings stories of his adventures and the people he's met, and as the months go on, he brings small messages from the Princess to the spinner/scribe. At first the messages are brief, straightforward, impersonal but informal; Rumple can almost hear her voice in them. "Papa, Belle says hello, she hopes you're well and that you liked the book she sent last. She would like to know what you thought of it. And if you liked that one, you'll really like this one."

"Papa, I told Belle about your garden and she sent this book about medicinal herbs."

"Papa, the King of Agrabah visited the castle last month, and he brought a bunch of gifts. Belle thought you might like to have that roving; it comes from llamas—they're kind of like big sheep that live in the mountains."

"Papa, I told Belle you sometimes write contracts and deeds, so she sent this book about laws. She said you could keep it because the castle has another copy."

"Papa, Belle was asking me that since you taught me and Morraine to read, she wonders if you had any ideas on how to help this one kid at the school. His family says he's cursed because the letters get all jumbled up in his head. So Belle was asking me to ask you—here, she wrote you a letter to explain it. She's hoping you'll write back to her."

Rumple spends the entire weekend writing and rewriting his answer. He wants the letter to be respectful, not too personal, but warm, because she's been so helpful to his son and so kind to himself, though the Stiltskin men certainly don't merit such attentions from a royal. He wants to be informative; in recent years, he's come across people with the "reading curse," Fort being one. He has no solution, but he can offer encouragement.

More than anything, he wants his letter to the Princess to inspire her to write back. Once Bae has gone back to Avonlea with the letter tucked into his pack (shielded by a scarf that Rumple has made from the llama wool, a gift for the Princess to thank her for the book loans), Rumple is tempted to run after him, take the letter back for one more revision. She is, after all, a Princess, and though her own handwriting is busily messy and her spelling sometimes—well, unconventional, she deserves perfection.

He learns on Bae's next visit he needn't have worried. This time Bae brings a seven-page letter from the Princess, who signs herself simply as "Belle."

Letters go back and forth from the Princess to the spinner—and eventually, from "your friend Belle" to "Rumple." Rumple weaves a little basket to keep the letters in, and he likes to sit beside the fire, with the cat on his lap, to reread them when he feels lonely or. . . it takes a long time for him to identify the emotion; it's been so long since he felt it last. . . when he feels romantic.

The cat, who still enjoys sitting on top of anything that Rumple is trying to read, doesn't disturb these letters.

* * *

In front of the Hog's Head sandwich board (now decorated with fancy lettering to accompany the grimacing hog) Rumple hesitates, every slap and sneer, every insult and indignity he's ever received flooding his memory at once. It'll probably be like that the rest of his life: Certain sights, sounds or smells will trigger those memories. But he thinks the dread he's always felt in reaction to those triggers will lessen as time goes by.

A hand drops on his shoulder. "Well? Whatcha waitin' for?" The hand leaves his shoulder to open the tavern door. "I dunno about you, but I'm thirsty."

Rumple smiles at his companion. "I'm buying."

It's a chilly evening a few days after harvest, so the Hog's Head is filled with talkative men with coins jangling in their pockets. Most don't bother to glance at the newcomers, but they do shove aside to make room at the bar. "Hey, Fort," a few call out. And "Hey, Rum. How's the squire?"

The barkeeper delivers two sloshing tankards their way in answer to Fort's signal. He grunts in Rumple's direction but refrains from further comment. A coward's a coward, but money is money.

"Good harvest," says one of the men at the bar.

Fort nods and raises his tankard in a toast, everyone at the bar following suit. "And to a easy winter."

They drink. The previous speaker adds, "Them cats are part of it. Mine have chased away every rat and mouse in my barns." He raises his tankard in Rumple's direction. He may not be ready yet to socialize with the village coward, but he has enough good grace to acknowledge him. "To the cats."

Rumple laughs into his ale. "To the cats."

* * *

Morraine turns fifteen. Rumple weaves a shawl for her and he begins to prepare for Bae's birthday, which will soon follow. Gretchen invites him to Morraine's birthday supper, and the girl gives him a hasty hug before running off with her friends. Rumple sits on the lawn with Gretchen and Lucas and they reminisce about the diaper days.

It's a sweet time, the reward for Lucas' and Gretchen's years of parenting. "We did good," Lucas says, reaching for his wife's hand. "You did very good," Rumple agrees. "She's a fine young lady."

Except the Duke doesn't seem to agree. A week after the birthday, three catchpoles (including the one Rumple remembers from the festival; the knave's name is Hordor) hired by the Duke to drag in "volunteers" for the army appear in town. When there are no healthy young men to "recruit," the catchpoles take childless young women; when there are no young women, the catchpoles take teenagers. They claim the Duke has authorized a lowering of the age of conscription to fourteen, though they have no papers to prove it, as the town learns when Rumple dares to ask. The town knows the truth: the catchpoles are paid by the head. Strangely, they don't take Fort or his remaining two healthy sons—but Fort spits on the tavern floor and explains his theory: "They're scared of us. That's why they're takin' boys and girls."

"Let's get 'em, Pa," Jarrin clenches his fist. "They're sleepin' upstairs. Let's get 'em now before they take the kids away."

"No," Rumple interrupts. "The Duke will just send others. Maybe send men to kill you in your sleep."

"Rumple's right, damn it," Fort agrees. "We got to think of something else."

"Maybe we could bribe them?" Tarrin suggests.

"And get put in jail for bribery?" Fort brushes the idea aside.

"They're gonna take the kids if we don't do nothin'. They'll be gone in a week." For the time being, the catchpoles are enjoying the hospitality of the Buckaneer's Bodice tavern on the nicer end of town—free housing, free meals, free beer and free strumpets, all in tribute to the Duke.

"I hear that certain men have bought their way out of the draft," the barkeeper throws in. "The going rate is five gold pieces, which is what the catchpoles get for each head they bring in."

"Should we raise the gold to buy out Morraine's conscription?" Tarrin wonders. "If we shake down the whole town, we still won't have enough to buy out the other kids."

"Can't believe the King would allow this," Rumple says thoughtfully. "I understand he's a good man."

"Maybe he don't," Fort suggests. "Maybe he don't know about it."

"Yeah," Rumple says. "Maybe he should. Fort, does Rowntree still own that saddlehorse?"

"Think so. Rowntree don't ride any more, but he's got a kid that works for him that rides good."

Rumple fishes a copper from his pouch and pays for his beer. "Jarrin, go fetch this kid and the horse, would you? Send him to my house."

"What're you gonna do, Rum?" Fort asks.

"Write a letter to a friend."


	9. Ogre Analysis

Gretchen sits at Rumple's table with a cup of tea, now cold, before her. Her eyes are swollen and she's shaking, because next door, her daughter is packing a bag to go—who knows where—and her husband is hunched over a map at their kitchen table, studying a route to the next county, where he plans to hide Morraine. It's been four days since the "recruiters" arrived; they will be leaving in two more, with teenagers in tow.

Gretchen and Rumple have talked themselves hoarse. All that is left now is to drink tea and wait. The cat sits on the table, her paws stretched across Gretchen's arm, her head resting on those paws. She's never sat on the table before; she knows it's not allowed; but as Gretchen scratches the cat's ears, Rumple remains silent.

Suddenly Morraine and Lucas appear in the open doorway. Lucas looks stunned. As Morraine rushes in and kneels at her mother's side, Lucas steps aside to reveal a tall, muscular man in a red uniform standing behind him. The soldier's brass buttons gleam in the sunlight as he removes his metal helmet and waits politely outside. "Gret, Rumple," Lucas announces in a hushed tone, "this is Lieutenant Fendral of the Royal Home Guard."

Rumple fumbles for his cane and stands. "Bae's Fendral?"

The guardsman grins now, his body relaxing as he steps inside, assured he's welcome. "Aye. Bae's Fendral. You must be his father." He offers his hand and Rumple shakes it. Then the knight says something that sets Rumple back on his heels: "I appreciate you allowing your son to join our ranks. He's a hard worker, a fine lad and a credit to this village. Thank you, sir."

 _Sir!_ Rumple finds his voice. "Uhm, would you care for a cup of tea, Lieutenant?"

The knight accepts the mug and drinks deep. "I'm sorry it took me so long. His Highness sent me out on the same day he received your letter, but I rode first to Faysea to deliver messages to Duke Cedric and his successor."

"Successor?" Gretchen echoes. "Has the Duke died?"

The guard dimples. "Let's say he took an early retirement for the good of his health. The new Duke's first act was to update this duchy's conscription law, to bring it into compliance with the kingdom's. No one under the age of eighteen will be drafted."

As Morraine and her parents cheer, Fendral fishes a scroll from his pouch. "This one," he unrolls the scroll to show them, "the sheriff will be ordered to post in the town center. It's a declaration of the new law, signed by His Majesty and His Grace." Fendral drinks his tea as he gives Rumple and Morraine a chance to read the scroll before he rolls it back up and replaces it in his pouch. He glances at Lucas. "If you'll point me to the sheriff's office?"

"Gladly."

Fendral fishes a sealed envelope from his pouch and presents it to Rumple. "This is for you, sir."

Rumple recognizes the handwriting on the front of the envelope; he doesn't need the royal seal on the back to inform him of the sender's identity. He touches the ink that bears his scrawled name—spelled correctly. He barely hears the knight bid him and the ladies farewell, nor Gretchen invite Fendral to return after his visit to the sheriff. "You'll be hungry and tired, I'm sure," she suggests. "Let us make you comfortable tonight."

"Aye," the knight agrees. "My horse needs rest. But at first light I must return to Avonlea. Our scouts report the ogres at the edge of the border."

Rumple gathers his wits and bows. "Thank you, Lieutenant Fendral."

The guard returns the bow. "It's been an honor, sir."

As Lucas leads the knight away, Gretchen leads her daughter away. "We have a supper to cook. Bring that leg of mutton up from the smokehouse, and I'll need to send your father to the Hog's Head for a small keg of ale. . . . You'll come to supper, Rumple. I'll send Morraine over when it's ready."

The guests gone, Rumple carries his letter to the rocking chair at the hearth. Midnight hops down from the table and assumes her usual position sleeping on Rumple's feet. He opens the envelope with care not to rip it, because paper is scarce and Belle fills all available space.

 _"Dear Rumple."_ For months now, she's begun her letters this way. " _As you can well imagine, I was shocked—horrified—furious! To learn what Cedric has done in my father's name. Please believe me when I say with all my heart that His Majesty did not authorize, would never authorize, this 'emergency conscription' law and had no knowledge of it. Why, he would rather pick up a sword himself and run to the front lines before he would allow children to be drafted! As soon as I received your letter, I took it to him and he immediately summoned his generals, instructing them to search their ranks for any underage recruits, and pay them a gold coin each and send them home. Whereupon my father then summoned his legal counsel, instructed them to draft an ironclad new law prohibiting any county within the kingdom from altering the draft law in any way, at penalty of deposing. And then His Majesty sent a small party from the Home Guard to Faysea, to enforce the new law. By now you will have heard the outcome._

 _"I promise you, my dear Rumple, this will never happen again. Please tell your village that your children are safe—from conscription, at least. I wish I could promise the same for the ogres, but we are losing ground and lives, and I fear that the outcome is beyond our control._

 _"I wish you to know that whatever happens in this war, I will do all in my power to keep your son safe while he is with us. He is a favorite here and has done much good in teaching the children to read. You can be proud._

 _"Please write me again so that I may know the children of Ramsgate are safe, and that you are well. I shall have a new book to share with you when Baelfire visits home again next, a volume I picked up in market yesterday called Song of the Nibelungs. Quite exciting. I thank you for the Book of the Marvels of the World that you sent to me last. I have not quite finished it but am enjoying the writer's travel adventures immensely. I hope that someday we may discuss our readings by means other than letters. I find that although our tastes differ, we share the same ear for a well-turned phrase. I should also like to meet the cat of which your son speaks so fondly._

 _"Take care, my friend, and write soon, please._

 _"Belle"_

His letters to her, with the exception of the most recent, bearing the news of Cedric's draft law, are never written in haste. He takes great pains with his handwriting as well as his word choice, concerned that he will overstep his bounds and offend her. But for one night only he has a messenger available, so he dashes off a short letter of gratitude (is it proper to ask her to convey his thanks to the King? Or is that too forward?) and takes it with him to the celebratory supper at Lucas'. He writes a note to Bae as well. Fendral is not at all inconvenienced to deliver two letters. His heart pounding, Rumple dares to ask the knight for his impressions of the royal family, and there's a twinkle in Fendral's eye as he relates some stories—most of which seem to feature the Princess.

Well, after all, it was probably from her own hands that Fendral received the letter that now rests in the special basket on Rumple's mantle.

* * *

Belle's letters change as the seasons do. They become more contemplative, more focused on news of the war and analyses of the books of warfare she's reading. She sends those books to Rumple to gain his impression, hoping that he'll find an idea she's missed. No human army has ever won a war against ogres, only an insignificant battle here and there.

The letters increase in frequency as they find more books, talk to more people, share even the most farfetched rumors; they study all that is known about ogre anatomy, psychology and sociology. Rumple gathers the few veterans living in the village and pumps them for information. It's precious little, of course, and mostly conjecture, since few humans have come in close contact with the flesh-eating giants.

Giants—it occurs to Rumple as he lies in his bed one night, listening to the cat prowl the house, that at one time there was a race of giants. He's seen the archaeological evidence of them in his travels while in the army. They don't exist any more; it's said that one of them once befriended a human, who then betrayed the entire race in order to steal their treasure. Rumple wonders if the ogres are deformed offspring of the giants, or perhaps a cursed band of giants. He begins to read everything he can find about giants. Again, it's little, because that race had kept themselves isolated, but they did keep records, mostly about their crops, and some of those records have been retrieved. Through her father Belle secures those records.

"The giants had two good eyes," Rumple writes. "We know that ogres can't see at all. They depend upon hearing almost exclusively; scent, to a lesser extent. That fact has saved more human armies than any act of bravery or strategy. Their hides are impervious to swords and arrows; only striking them in the eye will kill them. Unfortunately, few archers have that level of skill, and even fewer can stay alive long enough to get close enough to aim accurately."

" _We know the giants looked very much like humans,"_ Belle writes. _"They were social, living in families and villages, as we do, and they wore complete sets of clothes, not the loin cloths that ogres wear. They were dedicated farmers and ate no meat—a far cry from their ogre offspring (if the species are related)." Rumple can imagine her chuckling as she wrote, "They must have had some_ _huge_ _farms to keep those big gizzards filled!"_

"There seem to have been only male giants," Rumple writes. "No one knows how they populated. There are female ogres; they fight as viciously as the males and are just as large."

" _The giants were never involved in any wars, as far as we can ascertain,"_ Belle writes. _"No weapons were found in their stores, only farming tools."_

"Ogres prefer to fight bare-handed. It excites them to tease their food before they consume it." Rumple almost writes _like a cat_ , but he refuses to dignify the ogres by comparing them to his little fluffy walking mousetrap. "When they do use weapons, it's all power-driven: boulders, fighting sticks, catapults. Or they'll just step on a human. Arrows and swords are too refined for them. Their breath alone can knock a man off his feet. Their growls are so loud they can deafen a man. The smell, too, is overpowering. They never bathe."

" _Giants not only bathed, they invented a sort of tooth powder. Their dental care was more advanced than humans', even. They could read and write and fancied music, even wrote songs. We've recovered some of their written music. Interestingly, the songs contain notes that when played, produce no sound. How odd! But then, I've heard some very strange music in my travels, so no accounting for taste,"_ Belle writes.

"Ogres don't have the intelligence for anything beyond a primitive form of communication. Grunts and gestures, mostly. Even my cat can communicate better than an ogre can."

" _Did you know that ogres never fight during a rainstorm? And in fact if they're in the middle of battle and it starts to rain, unless it's just a light spring rain, they'll retreat and wait for clear skies before they attack again. Our generals think the ogres must be superstitious, believing that rain will bring bad luck, or perhaps it's part of their theology, like some of the ancient cultures who believed that weather was controlled by gods and in order to get the weather you want—rain for your crops or sunny skies for your journeys—you need to make a sacrifice to the right god. Some of our generals are superstitious themselves (I know one who wears his tunic inside out when he goes into battle)._

" _I don't accept either the superstition theory or the theology theory, because nothing in our troops' observations of ogres suggest that they hold any other superstition, nor have they ever been seen praying, building an altar, making a sacrifice—in fact, I doubt if ogres are even imaginative enough to be superstitious or religious. Still, I have no idea why they avoid rain. If only we could communicate with them or if they left written records. Even drawings on a cave wall would help us to understand them. They're a very curious species, Rumple, very curious."_

"When I was in the army" (he wants to be completely honest with her, so his conscience demands that he add _in the short time I was there_ or _before I deserted_ , but enough selfishness lives in his heart that he craves her favorable opinion. Besides, if he scared her away by revealing his past to her, their correspondence would cease, and any good idea that might spring of their continuing exchange would never come to fruition, would it? So in the interest of ending the war sooner, yes, in the interest of peace, he decides to withhold his secrets from her). "When I was in the army," he writes, "we too noticed the ogres' reaction to rainstorms. But what we saw was that the rain itself didn't seem to upset them—they would retreat at the start of rain, but it was only when thunder struck that they ran for cover. If they are, as your generals say, superstitious, it must be some belief about thunder, not rain."

" _Very interesting observation in your last letter, Rumple. I have been turning it over and over in my mind; something about it makes my thoughts itch. One of my mother's maids is terrified by thunder (not that she resembles an ogre in any other way!) and will bury her head beneath a pillow at the first boom, no matter how distant and faint. There is no rhyme or reason to it, but she trembles so you'd think she had seen a demon. We have tried to cure her with warm milk and soft music, but to no avail. Not that I would want to offer warm milk to ogres! Let them continue to quake, if indeed thunder causes them irrational dread. We need any advantage we can get. It's a pity we can't harness thunder like the gods of old and drive the ogres from our lands with it, but I suppose if we could, we would drive ourselves insane in the process._

" _All this itching is annoying!_

" _When your son goes home next, I shall send along a book about ancient beliefs. I don't suppose it will reveal anything we can use against the ogres, but you may find it entertaining. Baelfire did when he read it. Have I mentioned what a fine lad he is? You have every right to be proud. But it's not surprising, I think, because whenever he speaks of you, it's obvious he has a fine papa._

" _But as I was about to say—isn't it interesting? Even though we have only paper and ink passing between us, I often feel as though we are speaking. As I was saying, it's revealed a flaw in us humans that we know so little about ogres. We seem to know far more about unicorns than we do ogres! Is it, I wonder, because of our attraction to what we think beautiful and our suspicion of what we find ugly? Or is it that we study the things we can overpower?_

" _We can't overpower them, even our superior minds and weapons are not enough to overcome their size and their viciousness. We can't even negotiate with them or buy our way out of this war. Rumple, do you think it's hopeless? Is the only answer to run?"_

"Sweetheart, please don't lose—" he starts to write, then he draws back in horror. Gods! What's wrong with him that he dares, even if it's just in his thoughts, to refer to her so familiarly? He tries again. "To run has been the response of other kingdoms to ogre threats. The problem with that solution is that ogres are not apparently after land—they build no homes. They're not particularly interested in resources, other than water and livestock. They don't farm and they don't value gold. They come after us for one reason only: as a food supply. They pursue us just as we pursue fish and venison. We are, apparently, a delicacy. In fact, a successful ogre war party will save the youngest human captives to be served to the biggest ogre." Should he be writing so frankly to a princess? He tears up his letter and starts again, then changes his mind and returns to the frank speech. Open and direct communication is necessary if they are to uncover a solution.

"Do not give up hope, Belle."

" _Don't stop searching, Rumple. We'll find a way."_


	10. Storms

Ramsgate throws itself a party, though nowhere near as big as the fall festival: His Majesty has declared the village large enough to warrant a postal delivery once a week. Rumple dares to ask Belle if she's had anything to do with this decision, since, in all honesty, Ramsgate is no bigger now than it was last year or the year before, and Belle has been bemoaning the irregularity with which she's received his letters. "I may have," she admits, "but you must know, my father makes his own decisions and is ever mindful of money in this time of war. But he sees a value to the war effort in the letters we exchange, so hence the postal service."

Rumple is flattered—the thoughts he puts on paper are considered by the King to be helpful!—but also a bit apprehensive until Belle assures him she does not share his letters with anyone else; she merely summarizes for her father what lines of thought she and Rumple are pursuing regarding the ogres and what conclusions they've reached. He may continue to "speak freely, and of matters other than war, as we have been, friend to friend." And so he does, relating stories of the small goings-on in Ramsgate, because she loves his observations so, though he never can bring himself to talk about his personal past, and in her warm and lively style, she relates vivid descriptions of the personages who come to court. "I almost feel as though I can see the court through my window," Rumple compliments her; and she confesses a longing to meet the colorful characters of his reports.

Gradually, slowly, her letters take a more personal turn, as she expresses frustration in her role as a future ruler _. "Though I will be Queen one day, and though my father includes me in meetings with his war council, the Royal advisers treat me like a child who must be sheltered from unpleasantness. Whether their condescension is due to my age or my sex—probably both—the result is the same: keep the princess in the dark about the 'crude aspects' of life. A frown, even if it's caused by profound thought, must not be seen upon her pretty young face."_ _  
_  
She is even more incensed about the control that the social advisors think they have over her personal life _. "A princess doesn't have one! Every aspect of every thing is under scrutiny, from the number of petticoats I wear to the number of hours I may spend with a friend or a book. Who I may befriend is much commented upon, of course, now that I am of marrying age. I wish sometimes that one of my older sisters had not declined their position, so that I would be free of the obligations of a future Queen, but that is undeniably selfish of me. To speak plainly, neither of my sisters has the mind, the heart or the stomach to rule and the kingdom would suffer for it if either had accepted the succession. I have always felt what my mother terms 'the call' and when the time comes, I will ascend to the throne without reservation, but, Rumple, I wish those gray men who surround my father and think it their duty to inform him_ _whose hand deserves shaking_ _and which handkerchief suits which occasion—I wish they would find a more useful occupation. My grandfather thought them necessary, because he was a military man who knew nothing of the ways of court, and my father tolerates them because other kings have such advisors, but when I am crowned, I shall find work for them in the barns so that they will at last serve the kingdom usefully."_

Rumple assures her this is a good plan, exhibiting fiscal responsibility; he also informs her that "the gray men" exist in all walks of life. "Some people have too much time on their hands, I suppose, that they feel it behooves a community to tell other people how to spend their time."

 _"Please don't think me ungrateful, my dear friend. I am ever mindful of my good fortune that I have always had enough to eat and a warm place to sleep, and that someday I will be in a position to have some impact upon the world. So few women can even read, and here am I, soon to have the power to sign treaties and pass laws. I am grateful; it's just—I'm just blowing off steam, and I thank you for your patience with me. There is no one else I can speak to this way."_ _  
_  
Rumple exchanges a stunned look with Midnight as he reads that sentence aloud. Something has changed over the course of their correspondence. He is no longer just a fellow researcher or a sharer of colorful observations. He is, to Belle, somewhat more than a friend, he realizes, but he doesn't know quite what role he fills for her.

And he's beginning to wonder, with as much anticipation as he awaits each letter, as much pounding of the heart he feels as he slides his thumbnail under each wax seal, what role she fills for him.

* * *

Next week Rumple will be going to Avonlea. As usual, he'll be selling thread at the castle and the marketplace, then he'll spend an afternoon with Bae. They will stroll around the city, though it's not the clean, shining place it used to be; the war has taken its toll. Though the battles are days' rides away, the effects are felt everywhere in the kingdom of Aramore, and especially the capital city. Increased taxes to fund the war mean a decrease in new construction and road repair; increased conscription means a decrease in workers for farms and shops, which decreases production; as the wounded are brought in from battlefields, healers must devote more time to the treatment of soldiers, leaving more routine illnesses and injuries untreated (or treated by neighbors with knowledge of folk medicine). And in the distance, the sky glows red and the wind carries the acrid odor of burnt flesh and the heavy stink of rotting bodies.

Rumple's trips to the city have this year been less profitable than in the past, except for the first year after his desertion. More and more of his income issues from bartering his services as a scribe and his cat's services as a mouser. Still, he continues to visit Avonlea because it affords him a few extra hours with Bae.

Every time he approaches the castle, he pauses at the well to wash, then to gaze up at the balconies in the hope of once again seeing a dark-haired young woman there. He hasn't seen her since that one wonderful glimpse years ago. He knows all about her life now, knows how busy she is, knows that when she rests, it's likely to be in the kitchen or the library, not on a balcony, watching clouds drift.

As he settles at his wheel to spin the last of the thread before his journey, he considers—as he always does when he's preparing to go to Avonlea—writing a letter to Belle to share his plans with her. Perhaps she would agree to meet with him, show him her library, or at least talk for a few minutes about their research. He yearns to hear her enchanting voice again and look into those mesmerizing eyes, and he is not so naïve as to be unaware that she would like to meet him too. But the truth of it is, he sees only heartbreak from a closer acquaintance. As long as she remains a distant correspondent, he can fantasize about her, but if she became real to him, he would need more than dreams, and that's not possible. She is a future leader, and young, and educated, and beautiful. He is. . . not.

So he spins into the night and never writes his letter. When he receives a surprised and somewhat indignant missive from Belle—"Bae tells me you were in Avonlea last week to visit him. Why did you not tell me you were coming? I should have liked to meet you"—he apologizes. He offers no excuse—she'd know it was a lie. She knows the reality of their situation as well as he does.

As for his feelings for her, they will dissipate, he's sure. When they do, perhaps then he could bear to kiss her hand without needing to kiss her lips, and then he could accept a meeting that would certainly end in parting.

* * *

" _As I write, the wind is whipping the curtains covering my open balcony doors. It howls like a dog begging to be let in from the cold. If we lived in a land without war, I suppose I'd be fretting that the oncoming storm would spoil the attendance at the autumn ball, but as things are, I worry instead about our soldiers, sleeping on the ground, seeking trees that can provide some slight shelter from the rain. I also hope that there will be thunder so there can be a night or two of peace._

" _No, it's not true about the ball. I pretend sometimes that I'm more outgoing than I really am, because it's what expected of me (especially now: keep up the people's spirits by putting on a happy face, the gray men advise us. Distract them with bread and circuses). I don't fit into the world of pretty gowns and curtseys. I have to be truthful with you, Rumple, and hope I don't disappoint you with my discomfort in society and my complete lack of ladylike charms. Really, I am far more comfortable discussing books with you than I am with dancing the latest steps with fashionable fellows. I'm not what a princess is supposed to be._

" _Rumple, distract me: tell me how goes your research? What have you spun this week, and what legal agreements have you written? I need distraction. I'm not afraid of storms, but I'm afraid of the life I'm expected to lead._

" _Your friend, Belle"_

"Dear Belle,

"I beg you to consider the possibility that you are not the princess the gray men expect you to be because you are not meant to be. Your nation needs a leader who knows the law, not the latest dances; a leader who cares for the poor and the sick, not fashionable fellows; a leader who invests their taxes in schools and hospitals and roads, not balls. They need a leader who does not fit in. That is the leader who will build a future for them.

"As for my good opinion, you need never worry whether you have it; there is nothing you can do that will ever lose it. Besides, I am only a spinner, Belle; no one need call me 'sir.' My opinion is sought only so far as wool and cats go.

"Take heart, dear friend. Storms clear away deadwood and bring fresh air. You shall be the storm your people need.

"Your friend and admirer, Rumple"

* * *

Staff in his right hand, basket in his left, and a few coins jangling in the pouch strung onto his belt, Rumple strides out into the dawn. In his basket are some documents he's written for pay; this money, when he receives it, will go into Rumple's lamb fund. He is headed for Ramsgate's small market to search for something special for Bae's birthday. It's difficult to buy gifts for Bae, now that he's almost a man; trinkets and toys no longer amuse him and the castle supplies all the clothes and books he needs. Still, it pleases Rumple to no end that he can even buy a gift; and even better, though he still has plenty of enemies in the village, he has among the vendors some near-friends who will greet him and make him a fair sale. A few, like the baker Falk, will be downright generous, out of respect for Bae's service to the kingdom; in recognition of Bae's birthday, Falk will slip some of those soft white rolls into basket, free of charge, to go along with the cake Rumple is buying.

So much different his trips to the market are now, than in years past—but Rumple pushes the unpleasant memories aside. He buys the cake (and accepts the free rolls with thanks), and cheese and sausage and a small bag of sweets. Then he approaches the tinker's stand in hopes of finding something interesting there to make a birthday gift. And in fact, there is something curious going on as he approaches: a crowd has gathered to listen in amusement as the tinker shouts into the ear of the oldest man in the village. Everyone knows that Lethold is nearly deaf—a war injury, Lethold likes to boast, from the First Ogre War, when an ogre had him pinned to the ground and roared into his face. Lethold escaped only by the quick thinking of two of his comrades, who clapped their shields together, the clanking of the metal distracting the ogre from its prey.

Rumple approaches and eavesdrops on the exchange. "I got it made," the tinker is practically shouting at Lethold. "Look." He sets a brass funnel on the counter. At least, Rumple assumes it's a funnel, except its handle is narrower and longer than any funnel Rumple's ever seen, and it's elegantly curved. The tinker holds out his open palm. "Four coppers."

"What?" Lethold is shouting back.

The tinker sighs, picks up the funnel and presses the narrow end against Lethold's ear. "Four coppers," he repeats, and Lethold leaps backward, bumping into an onlooker. The old man's eyes are round as bowls as he begs, "Say that again."

"I said, 'Four coppers.' Are you going to pay me or do I take back the ear trumpet?"

Ear trumpet. Rumple turns the phrase over in his mind. He's never heard it before, nor has he seen such a device, but he's impressed, as is the entire crowd, because for the first time in fifty years, Lethold is holding a conversation in a normal tone of voice. "Don't rush me! Now where'd I put my money pouch?" the old man pats at his hips until an onlooker pushes the pouch, which has crept around to Lethold's backside, to the front.

Some of the onlookers laugh with delight; a few even clap their hands. In a single moment, a man's life has changed with the introduction of a simple tool. As a small girl runs up to tug on the old man's cloak, Lethold snuffles, and everyone in town knows why: for the first time ever, Lethold can now hear his great-granddaughter when she stands on tiptoe to whisper in his ear that she needs to be taken to the outhouse.

An age of miracles and wonders, Rumple thinks. And then, as Lethold and his great-granddaughter walk away hand in hand, Rumple's mind begins to—as Belle would say—itch.

* * *

It's Bae's sixteenth birthday. His father remains at home instead of meeting him at the crossroads; Rumple leaves this privilege for Morraine. In another four or five years, these children very well may consider marriage, a thought Lucas and Rumple find agreeable. So they allow the kids some privacy, within limits.

When Bae comes in, hand in hand with his best girl, Midnight has already been waiting for him at the door for more than an hour. He stands still to allow her to wind her way around his legs, then he pets her, then she resumes her spot at the hearth and goes to sleep, seeming to lose interest. Bae and Morraine laugh. Rumple serves them little cakes he bought from Falk and sits down to spin, leaving them to chat quietly. At suppertime Gretchen and Lucas bring over a plate of mutton and a loaf of bread to add to Rumple's basket of pears and bowl of broad beans. They listen to Bae's tales, then Morraine reads a story from the book from the royal library, and they chat until the moon rises. When the visitors have gone, Bae washes in preparation for bed.

He's digging around in the clothes cupboard in the vain hope of finding a pair of trousers that will fit him—he seems to have gained an inch in height and two in girth since his last visit—when something clatters to the floor. Midnight is instantly on top of it, sniffing, batting it with her paws, then stomping on it. When the object offers no resistance, not even a squeak of surrender, she tosses her head and tail in the air and walks away. She takes her hunting skills outside, where they will be better rewarded.

Bae picks up her discarded catch. He examines it in the lamplight. "Huh! Remember this?"

Rumple leaves the dishes he's washing to join his son. "That whistle. The one you traded a kitten for."

"The dog whistle. Morraine and I were going to make a fortune training dogs with it." He tosses it back into the cupboard. "I suppose all kids have get-rich-quick schemes." He borrows a pair of his father's trousers and climbs into his pallet. "Good night, Papa. Thanks for the birthday party."

"Good night," Rumple answers distractedly. Something in his brain is itching. He finishes the dishes, but the unborn idea won't lie silent. It drives him to dig around in the cupboard for that whistle. He sits at the table a while, turning the whistle over in his fingers, waiting for the idea to hatch. When it does, he doesn't quite recognize it, but he grabs his hammer and the tankard Bae gave him at Yuletide and he goes outside, into the woods so that what he's about to do doesn't awaken Bae. With his hammer he knocks the bottom out of the tankard, then he holds the whistle up to his mouth and slides the tankard over the whistle. He blows as hard as he can. Dogs throughout the neighborhood howl in protest; a cat or two yeowls.

Rumple smiles.

* * *

At dawn he's pounding on the tavern door. The bartender sneers at him as he throws the door open. He's never much liked Rumple, though he's come to tolerate him, seeing as how so many of his regular customers have befriended the spinner. Now he likes the spinner even less. The tavern closed less than four hours ago; the bartender climbed into bed just three hours ago. "WHAT!" he barks.

"Sorry to disturb." Rumple brushes past him and heads for the bar. "Go back to bed. I'll get what I need and be gone in a minute."

The bartender watches him through bleary eyes as Rumple pokes around behind the bar. "There's no money back there," he growls.

Rumple ignores the insult and keeps searching.

"You need a drink that bad?"

"Funnel," Rumple snaps. "I need a funnel. I promise to return it before you open for the day."

"You're _cooking_ at this time of mornin'?"

"Testing an idea. Go back to bed." When the bartender doesn't budge, Rumple huffs, "All right! I'll leave a deposit for use of the funnel." He slams a copper on the bar and continues his search.

"Second shelf to your right, on the bottom." The bartender trudges back to bed.

* * *

"You want me to build _what_ , now?" The tinker sniffs, but doesn't find the answer he's looking for. "You ain't been drinkin' so you must just be crazy."

Rumple points again at the sheet of paper upon which he's drawn a model, with specifications marked. "Make me this," he sets the whistle on top of the paper, "twice as big. And make me this," he sets the funnel on top of the paper, "twice as big. With its smaller end just big enough for the whistle to fit through tightly. Simple. How soon can you have them made?"

"What're you gonna do with a giant whistle and a giant funnel?"

Rumple shrugs. "Catch a degenerate giant, I hope."


	11. Spinner's Whistle

In the privacy of his sitting room, Maurice examines the contents of the pouch that Bae has brought back from Ramsgate. He and his wife are still in their dressing gowns and were enjoying toast and tea when their youngest daughter burst in, barely taking time to knock, and flung the pouch onto their little dining table. She's standing now with hands on her hips, so they know they'd better listen to her or there will be no peace.

"You blow the whistle through the funnel." Belle is frustrated in trying to explain how this works, but instinctively, she knows it does, it _will_. "The funnel will make the sound louder, carry farther."

Maurice is already toying with the whistle, ignoring the funnel. "It's broken." He looks at his daughter sadly, but her hopes are not diminished. She merely throws her hands in the air. "I _told_ you, Papa, it's a special whistle. Humans can't hear it. Only animals— _and ogres_."

"I've seen something like this," Colette muses. "In the marketplace at Agrabah. A little horn that a man used to summon a cobra from a basket."

"I remember that. It's not the same. We could hear that horn," Maurice argues.

"But the concept," Colette argues back.

Belle growls, seizes the whistle and blows it through the funnel. Dogs throughout the courtyard begin to bark and howl. "See? There are sounds that only animals can hear. This whistle is one of them. We know that ogres have a much more refined sense of hearing than we do; they hunt by it. Their survival depends on it. We know, from the sheet music that's been recovered, that giants had a sense of hearing like that too. We think, Rumple and I, that the giants may have been the forebears of the ogres. Or maybe some powerful and annoyed sorcerer cast a curse on some giants, turning them into ogres. Whatever it was, we think this sound," she blows the whistle again, "will affect the ogres, possibly even more so than it does dogs. We think, if we blow the whistle loud and long enough, we could temporarily, maybe permanently, damage the ogres' hearing. Enough that our archers could get close enough to fire directly into their eyes."

"Thus killing them," Colette finishes. "It's an imaginative concept, but—"

"Are you asking me to risk one of my battalions to test an imaginative concept?" Maurice glares at the whistle.

"Not an entire battalion. Just a few brave soldiers. Locate a small herd of ogres, entice them into a canyon, where the sound will be further amplified, and then—" Belle blows into the whistle. "If the test works, have every tinker in the kingdom go to work immediately building these tools." She pauses a moment to let the vision form in Maurice's mind. "This is Rumple's research. And here's my contribution to the scheme: in the land of King Richard, there is an enchanted bow. An arrow shot from it will hit the target every time. We will buy or borrow that bow, let the fairies study its enchantment, and when they've discovered what magic makes it work, they will duplicate it."

"Enchant all the bows in our armory," Maurice calculates. He raises a bushy eyebrow. "I rather like that. But as for that—" he points at the whistle. "You want me to risk men's lives on the whim of a—what did you say his occupation was?"

Belle raises her chin. "A scribe and a scholar of the law."

Maurice snorts. Colette rests her hand on his forearm; in their long marriage, she's learned nudges are more effective than demands. "Belle has shown me some of this man's letters. He seems learned, intelligent and level-headed."

There's something more than Rumple's status that bothers Maurice: it's the way Belle has spoken of him. Over the two years of their correspondence, her tone has grown softer, her gaze as she studies his letters has grown fonder. Maurice has indulged it because Belle has never met the man and, given their circumstances, never will; besides, he's been too busy with the war to give much thought to his daughter's flights of fancy. He's left that to her mother, to sift through the suitors and at some point, arrange a marriage suitable for a future queen (and gods have mercy on the man who tries to rule over Belle).

"One squad," Belle urges. "Send one squad. Seven men."

"And an oversized whistle and a charmed bow," Maurice grunts. "Ridiculous."

But he doesn't retain that opinion for long. His meeting with his war council brings dismaying news that makes Maurice stomp up to his parlor, slam the door behind him, sink down on his bed and study the spinner's whistle.

Which is how it comes to be called.

* * *

"I'm afraid I no longer possess the bow you speak of," King Richard says as a footman fills his goblet with wine.

"It does exist, then. Not just a fable," the visitor inquires. He's a young major who's already won several medals, pinned on him by King Maurice himself, and he dares to hope that if he distinguishes himself throughout this war, a generalship will be in the offing. Sometimes, he even dares hope for more. Though in times of peace it would be unthinkable, the gratitude that a king may express to a loyal soldier sometimes allows social convention to be bent, and Major Gaston has noticed that the lovely princess has smiled at him more than once. Perhaps in the expectation of strengthening his bloodline, Maurice might be persuaded to bestow upon a war hero more than just a medal and a handshake.

"It does. It belongs to my most loyal and true subject, Lord Robin of Locksley." Richard sips his wine, and that is a signal that his guest may drink as well. He raises an eyebrow at the burly young man, who downs the entire goblet in one gulp, apparently unschooled in the art of wine tasting. Well, the Enchanted Forest's is not as old a culture as Sherwood Forest's, so Richard will forgive him. Besides, King Maurice is a significant ally.

"Will you help me to borrow or bargain for it?" Gaston has already explained his reason for needing the magic bow.

"Provided you use it as you said, and return it unharmed and unaltered. Better yet, let the fairies come to Sherwood, so that bow can remain in Robin's possession as they study it."

Gaston wipes the turkey grease from his hand and reaches across the table to offer a handshake. This gesture is uncouth in so many ways, it's downright embarrassing, but the boy doesn't realize that. Still, Maurice is a significant ally. . . .

Smothering a groan, Richard shakes the offered hand. "It's a deal."

* * *

Fendral's squad has volunteered for the assignment. Fendral has already had a long talk with Bae about Rumple's idea, and having met the spinner himself, the guard knows him to be of sober mind and sound judgement. More importantly, Fendral has his heart set on a captaincy, and a battle victory would do the trick. Most importantly, Bae stepped forward before anyone else and offered to accompany any guardsman who would lead the experiment. If the boy will put his young life on the line just to test an idea of his father's, the idea must be pretty trustworthy. Bae has demonstrated himself to be bold but not foolhardy.

Seven guardsmen and one squire ride into the hills, following the latest battlefield reports to locate a small herd of ogres. This herd consists of nursing and pregnant females and small children, which gives the guards some pause. "If this works, we'll be killing babies," one of the soldiers complains. The squad establishes a cold camp upwind of the herd, and as they drink from canteens and chew on hardtack, they study the enemy below. "We have to do this," Fendral urges. "Don't think of them as women and children—they're not human. Think of what they would do to our women and children, if we don't win this war."

Still, they sit on the hill, hiding in the trees, throughout the day, deliberating. Their minds are made up at nightfall when the earth shakes and a large male ogre approaches, a bag slung over his shoulder. He whistles and the largest of the females, knocking children and smaller females aside, comes to his call. He drops the bag at her feet, bites her ear, then growls and stomps back into the night. The female tears the bag open and the children crowd around, chattering, yipping and shoving each other. The ogre queen kicks out at whatever is in the bag, then gives a big belly laugh as the prey run, scattering chaotically in different directions, and the child ogres take pursuit. When a young ogre catches one of the victims, the queen smacks the ogre aside and claims the catch for herself, tearing off a leg and popping it into her mouth whole. With a great smacking of lips and chomping of teeth, she consumes the prey. When she has finished her snack, a free-for-all ensues, the other ogres pursuing and consuming the spoils of war: six naked humans.

"All right," Fendral says, "let's do this." This time no one argues with him.

* * *

Her Highness' birthday is fast approaching. Under the circumstances, Belle and her parents believe it would be more appropriate to celebrate privately and quietly; what would the people think, after all, if their royals partied while just a day's ride away young men and women died in defense of the nation? And the royal family quite agree; they are in no mood for celebration, mourning the years of war leading up to this day, fearful of the days to come, and reluctant to hold out hope that the Whistle Experiment might prove a turning point. There will be no public celebration of Belle's birthday this year, Maurice informs his staff—and then is informed in turn that plans have already been made for a ball, and invitations have been sent out to nobles far and wide. It is for the good of the country, the gray men insist grayly: a party will prove to the common man that the royals are still in charge, still confident, still to be trusted—and more importantly, a ball will perhaps finally, _finally_ result in the one great gift Belle can give her people: the security of the royal lineage. For Belle is turning twenty-seven and it's well past time for her to select a husband from any number of suitable bluebloods. The public, so the gray men claim, are very worried by Belle's spinsterhood, for her remaining years of fecundity grow short. In short, Belle is instructed, it's her duty to party.

Belle openly complains that this celebration will make her family appear insensitive, selfish, foolish, wasteful; Maurice reminds the gray men that they have overstepped their bounds, because it should be her decision how she wants to recognize her birthday. Colette purses her lips and orders the gray men out of the Great Hall so that she can speak to her family privately; when they've bowed out, she huffs at the arrogance of these useless courtiers, then calms down and points out that with invitations having already been extended, the party must go on. Belle's dance card has already been filled with the names of princes and lords who would be greatly offended by a cancelation—men with important treaties in their back pockets. The party will proceed, though Colette will oversee the preparations to ensure that they are modest and economical.

As Colette summons the staff, Maurice links Belle's arm in his own and takes her out into the gardens. She's redfaced and ready to fight, for she assumes her father will attempt to placate her—he gives in to the gray men far too frequently, in her opinion. But no lectures come; instead, Maurice brings her in on the plans for the Whistle Experiment, pointing out that it's the first hope Aramore has had in a good long while. Maurice is keeping the plan secret from the public, at least until the concept has been proven, but the troops all know about it. "If it fails, we lose little in money or lives," he explains, "but we could lose a great deal in our soldiers' morale."

"At least it puts us on a new path," Belle argues. "One that takes advantage of the only strength we have against the ogres: our intelligence."

"It is an ingenious plan," Maurice agrees. "Tell me more about this man who thought of it."

Belle launches into a description of everything she thinks she knows about a man she's never actually seen. So enthusiastic is she that she doesn't notice the small smile forming on her father's lips.

"And his family? Who are Rumplestiltskin's parents?"

Belle blushes, realizing she's been caught. The way she described her collaborator, he could only be a nobleman, one with an impressive education and a position of leadership in his village. Belle pretends to admire a rosebush as she murmurs, "I ah, he's, ah. . . peasant."

"Pardon me, sweetling?" Maurice leans closer.

"Peasant." She raises her chin in defiance. "He's a peasant. No 'connections,' as we would expect them. His only family is a son who's a squire for our Home Guard. Rumple is a fine father and a talented spinner." She points at Maurice's tunic. "You're wearing his work. You have been for years, everything your tailor has made for you."

Maurice falls silent and Belle fills the void with descriptions of Rumple's accomplishments in his community, serving the villagers as a legal counsel and a scribe. Maurice nods thoughtfully in answer to Belle's insistence that these are important roles and that it's far more impressive for a peasant to rise, through dint of hard work and native intelligence, than for a blueblood to have his role in life handed to him on a silver platter.

"Besides, there's no law against a royal befriending a peasant," Belle spouts.

"Nor against a royal of Aramore marrying a commoner," Maurice says slyly. "Your grandfather made sure of that when I began courting your mother. There is a difference, however, a small one, but significant: your mother's people were common but extremely wealthy, so it was a bit easier for the nobles to accept her as a future consort. After all," he chuckles, "she had better gowns and jewels than any of them."

Belle gnaws her lip.

"Belle, my darling, my father permitted me to marry your mother, not because of her wealth but because of her strength. He knew what few do not: the king must always think about the welfare of all his people, but he needs someone by his side who will always think about _his_ welfare. Not the welfare of the people, nor the nation, nor the crown, but his alone. Someone who sees him as a man, who, when they're alone, speaks to him as a man, not a king. Someone who will be his true partner in life, correcting him when he's wrong—in private, of course—and filling in the gaps in his own character. I knew from the moment I met her Colette would be that one true partner for me, and my father saw it too. I can wish no greater future for you, sweetling, than to find your partner. Anything less and your time as monarch will be misery, and the kingdom will suffer for it."

Belle smiles brightly, but a frown creases her father's brow. "You're a very headstrong person, Belle, and that's what the kingdom needs. But it will be an ongoing battle if you choose a commoner for your consort, and a peasant. . . ."

"Papa, why do you bring this up? I said nothing about marriage. I was merely answering your question about a friend."

"I recognize that gleam in your eye, daughter. It was the same one I had in my eye when I realized I'd fallen in love."

Belle sputtered, "But I've never even met Rumplestiltskin."

"You may find that to be true. If so, your heart will break a little when you come to know the real man. Or you may find that you've come to know him far better than you would have if his correspondence with you had been limited to writing his name on your dance card."

* * *

By orders of his officer, Bae has taken refuge away from the rest of the squad. He's hiding in the brush, within eyesight of the soldiers, but well back from the edge of the hill. He's protecting the cache of surplus weapons; as a fighter calls for one, he'll dash forward to supply it, then return to his hiding place. If there are wounded, they will be dragged back to the brush and he'll tend to them. It's not the most heroic job, but it's pretty important nonetheless. Next year, when he turns seventeen, he'll have a bigger role—if the war is still going on.

He glances up at the reddening sky. The sun is sinking. The squad has only a few minutes to attack before darkness falls, robbing the humans of one of their most valuable resources: their vision. He watches as Fendral waves an arm toward the west and the second-in-command, Gaunt, dashes around to the west of the hill. Another wave from Fendral and Gaunt raises his amplified whistle to his mouth. Bae sees the lieutenants' shoulders tighten; he assumes they're blowing the whistles, although he hears no sound.

Then suddenly there's a sharp cry of pain from the camp below, followed by another and another. Some of the soldiers look distressed. "It's the babies," he hears one of them protest to Fendral. "The whistles are hurting the babies."

The soldier kneeling next to the protestor gives him a small shove to get him to shut up. "We got to. Think of _our_ babies."

Fendral raises his arm in the air and the squad stands, arrows nocked. He lowers his arm and arrows fly. Bae has to struggle against the urge to creep forward and watch the battle, but he has his orders, so he stays put. He has to gauge the outcome of the attack from the posture of his squad and the cries and growls echoing off the rocks below. Fendral signals for another volley and he gets it. The hill shakes with the reverberation of thunderous footfalls as the ogres flee, tripping over rocks in their blind rush, crashing into trees and each other. The fall of their bodies reminds Bae of the fall of cut trees. Clouds of dust rise from the valley floor as Fendral calls for a third volley. "The eyes, men, aim for the eyes," he shouts, but the content of his order is unnecessary; everyone already knows an ogre's sole weak spot. The lieutenant's shout serves more as an emotional boost than an instruction.

The noise fades into the distance and Fendral waves Bae out from the brush. Just in case, Bae grabs a bow and slings a quiver over his shoulder before he comes to stand beside Fendral and peer over the edge of the hill. The valley is empty, though littered with broken trees, rocks and arrows. "Did we get _any_ of them?" One of the soldiers squints through the dust. Fendral points to direct the man's attention to a cluster of boulders, which now bear the body of an infant ogre. Someone's arrow had flown true, but no one claims it.

"Bring the horses," Fendral orders Bae, then tells the men they will leave immediately and travel as far as they can in the moonlight, lest any of the ogres, now confused and lost, stumble back to this valley. "When we reach Tergeron, we will stop at the outpost and send a message to the King." He glances at Bae. "There is a pigeon master at the outpost who will send the message. He can send one to your father as well."

Bae grins before running off to fetch the horses. He knows exactly what his message will say: simply "It worked."

* * *

Rumple clamps a hand to his mouth and moans as the sheriff rides up on a horse borrowed from Fort. The presence of the horse indicates that whatever the sheriff has come for, it's urgent, so Rumple has a fair idea what news the man bears. Rumple drops down to bench just outside his open door and waits heavy minutes as the sheriff hitches the horse to a tree and walks up the yard. He stares at the ground, watching an ant carry a crumb to its mound.

"Stiltskin," the sheriff begins, and Rumple dares to raise his head with a modicum of hope. The use of the friendlier nickname instead of Rumple's entire name suggests the message isn't a formal one. Still, Rumple won't breathe until the message is delivered.

The sheriff sits down on the bench and withdraws a scrap of paper from his cloak. He passes it to Rumple, who searches his eyes for a clue to the contents before taking the paper. The sheriff can't read, but Rumple knows he will have had his son, who can, thanks to lessons from Bae, read the scrap aloud before borrowing the horse.

Rumple forces his gaze to the paper. He reads it three times to make sure. He's expecting words like _served his King faithfully, died honorably in the line of duty_ , but instead there are just four words, wonderful words that make Rumple whoop and impulsively hug the sheriff. "It worked. Love, Bae."

"What worked?" the sheriff wonders, disentangling himself from the hug.

"A business deal that Bae made years ago has come to fruition," Rumple grins. "Sheriff, how would like a cup of tea for your troubles, and an apple for the horse?"

As soon as the horse and rider have been fed and sent on their way, Rumple takes down his box of paper and his bottle of ink, and he sits at the table to write a letter of congratulations to the Princess. Boldly, he addresses the letter "Dearest Belle." He feels their relationship has turned a corner, just as the war has, and he prefers to think of her as a person rather than a title, a collaborator for his ideas and a partner for his plans. . . .as a woman whose hand he might hold as they walked in the moonlight.

He uses all the paper in his box to tell her the stories of his life. He's never written of himself before, never assumed she would be interested; besides, they had much more urgent matters to communicate. What she will do with his revelation, he can't guess but he has a harebrained hope she'll reciprocate with stories of her own. He will need to buy more paper at the market tomorrow, and it will be four days before the postal rider arrives and can pick up the letter to deliver to her. During that time, he may well find an excuse to burn the letter, or more likely, postpone the decision to tell her about his past and leave the letter in the basket to send later, much later, eventually never.

But for the moment, his heart feels lighter.


	12. Invitations and Birthday Gifts

It's a violation of etiquette, but in times of war, manners tend to be loose; besides, Sir Gaston figures he's earned the right. The proof of that is sitting in the middle of the long table, rather crudely telling tales (no doubt tall) of life in the forest at the same time he stuffs his face with the King's chicken and ale. A manly man, that's what the generals who surround him are thinking; it's clear on their faces. Over the years they've heard variations on his stories many times, from travelers; now they get to hear the truth, even if it's a bit embellished, from the legend himself, Sir Robin of Locksley. Gaston ignores the generals' booming laughter at the falsely modest but uproariously funny spin Hood (that's his _true_ name, in Gaston's opinion) is putting on the story of how he met not-so-Little John.

Well, if this foreigner can get away with violations of etiquette, surely so can a knight of the realm and a hero recently returned from the war-changing mission that has brought Hood and his magic bow to Amadore. So Gaston rises from his seat across from Hood and pointedly wipes his mouth on a napkin (as a display of proper conduct at the King's table, in answer to Hood's having wiped his mouth on his sleeve). Servants scramble to move out of his way (he loves doing that to them; these servants of the royal castle think they're somehow better than the men who fight and bleed for the King and who have been knighted by His Majesty's own hand). Gaston boldly approaches the head of the table, where Maurice dines with his top generals on either side—though _dining_ is not really what the King is doing; he's barely touched his plate. Rumor has it Maurice has been off his feed for weeks now, so nervous is he, rattled by the hope of hope that this war will soon end, and happily. Interesting: Maurice eats heartily when depressed with loss but only picks at his food when he's teetering on success. Gaston takes note of these things; if all goes well tonight, this man will be his father-in-law before the end of the year, and the better he learns Maurice's habits and thoughts, the closer Gaston can get to him. It's not too far-fetched to imagine that by this time next year, Maurice will gift him with a generalcy, in return for his gift of an heir (male, of course, and what a relief that will be for the old gent, to know that when he passes, it may well be that a male bottom will be seated upon a throne in his place, and Belle will take her proper role as the Queen Mother).

Gaston hitches his pants and with a broad grin walks right up to His Majesty. Bushy gray eyebrows shoot up all around the head of the table. His Majesty tolerates the intrusion; to complain about it would be bad form. Gaston fixes his gaze on Maurice and waits for an invitation to speak—no one speaks before the King does, not in public anyway. Maurice is gracious. "Sir Gaston. My thanks again for securing the use of the famed bow for us, and congratulations on bringing its owner along as well. Our best archers will welcome the chance for private lessons with the Master of the Bow."

Gaston bends his neck. "My honor, Your Majesty. I was wondering if I could have a word in private with you?"

Now, normally, a nobleman wishing a private audience would have made his request to the Chancellor, who would forward it to the Chamberlain, who would then, if he saw fit, make arrangements with the King. But again, this was a time of war and Gaston was the hero of the day, and besides, everyone's known for years he's the frontrunner in the race for the Princess' hand, a favorite of Her Majesty for his handsome features, broad shoulders, noble family, and, of course, his bravery, courtesy and skill at the hunt.

The King hesitates and Gaston leans forward to whisper, "It's about your daughter, Sire."

With an undisguised scowl, Maurice rises and draws Gaston into a small staging room off the Great Hall. The servants use this space to hold freshly filled platters and barrels of wine and ale. As the diners empty a tankard or a plate, a servant will whisk it away, to a table here, while a second servant trots in with replenishments. Gasps and clattering dishes greet Gaston as the King sweeps in; the servants bow frantically and skitter out of the way. With the room emptied, Maurice spins on his heel and growls, "What is it, Gaston? So important that it can't wait for my Chamberlain?"

Gaston gulps. Okay, maybe he's misread the situation a little, but surely his haste can be read as eagerness, not impudence, yes? A future son-in-law so deeply in love that he can't wait another hour to ask his question—won't that score points with the father? "Ugh, uh, S-s-sire, I thought—" He raises his head and puffs out his broad chest, reminding himself he's the eldest son of the richest landowner in Aramore, and a knight, and a hero, and a damn good catch for any woman. "Sire, we've been at war now for nine years."

"Eight," Maurice corrects him.

"Eight years. The people are exhaustible. Fearsome. Unspirited. Now for the first time, with the gainsay of the Hood's Bow, the people have reason to hope. Why not give them something substantal to lift their spirits? The promise of heirs—if you'll forgive my frankness, Your Majesty—has always brought incredible joy to a kingdom, especially when the marriage is between one so beauteous as your daughter and, well, if you'll forgive my fortitude, an up-and-comer." He ducks his head in mock humility.

Maurice sighs. He isn't surprised, but he'd been passing on most of this duty to his Chamberlain and Her Majesty, and he'd hoped to not have to deal with any of Belle's suitors—especially this one. "Gaston, I'm not the sort of father to give away my daughter's hand in marriage as a thank-you for the successful completion of a negotiation. Especially when the other party was already an ally."

"But, Sire, surely a match between Belle and myself—just think what the people will say, the Princess and a war hero; it's a match made in Elysium, and the heirs we'll produce—well, just look," he gestures at his handsome form. "And m-m-may I remind you, Sire, if it's not too foured, my father has been the biggest contributor to your war coffers."

Maurice grunts, wondering how the ill-spoken lad managed to use the word _coffers_ correctly, instead of _coffins_. Well, Maurice hasn't time for this. The generals are in there making plans without him. Belle knows her own mind and has never hesitated to speak it; let her break the bad news, as she's done for so many other suitors. "Tell you what, boy, the man my daughter has given her heart to, she describes as intelligent, well-read, inventive, insightful, great-hearted and self-made. Spend an hour with her, and if you're able to convince her that you're a better man than he is, you may court her, if she'll tolerate it. But you'll have to wait, because Belle and her mother will be leaving in the morning on a war mission of their own." He drops a hand on Gaston's shoulder, and the knight dares to think the King will embrace him, but instead the King pushes him aside. "Now, I have battles to plan." And he's gone before Gaston can protest—politely, of course.

* * *

Rumple awakens a half-hour before dawn, not of his own volition but the cat's; she's marching up and down his chest. "What's the matter?" he croaks, his throat dry. "Something wrong with your door?"

She sits down on his stomach and stares. He sits up, shooing her away, then decides he might as well get up to answer the call of nature. It's a wet morning; must've rained last night while he was sound asleep. As he's returning from the outhouse, he hears hoofbeats on the road. It's still too dark to make out the rider's identity, but he leans on his walking stick as he swings around to face the road. The stick isn't just a means of support; it's a potential weapon, just in case. Then a new thought stabs at his heart: what if this rider is the sheriff?

The horse is reined to a halt at the edge of his lawn. It's not Fort's horse. The cloaked rider dismounts; he's dressed in a red uniform. He removes his helmet and walks up the lawn. Rumple nearly falls over, only his walking stick holding him up. "Oh noooo."

"Rumplestiltskin?"

He can now partially see the rider's face, dotted with stubble and pimples, the brow creased with concern. Rumple gulps as he nods. "Father of Baelfire," he whispers.

The rider understands now and relaxes into a smile. It's rather forward of him, but he touches Rumple's arm reassuringly. "Who is well and safe at Avonlea, probably snoring away in his bunk. I'm sorry, sir. I guess I wasn't thinking, else I wouldn't have ridden up on you like this, in the dark. It's just that I have a message from the Princess and—" he shrugs—"I wanted to impress her, I guess, by delivering it fast."

Rumple's eyes are still large with fear; the words haven't sunk in yet. The rider prompts, "May I give you that message?"

Rumple straightens himself and draws in a breath, as though awakening from a nightmare. "Of course. Please come in. You'll need something to eat after that long ride."

"Thanks." The rider follows Rumple into the house and accepts his invitation to be seated at the table while Rumple moves about, boiling water for tea, frying a slice of pork and two chicken eggs, slicing bread and setting out the pot of honey. Keeping busy covers up his embarrassment for his earlier reaction to the soldier's arrival.

"I'm Corporal Terrowin from the Avonlea Regiment," the young man introduces himself. "I'm not with the Home Guard, but I've met your son a couple of times because my regiment is stationed on the castle grounds. He's a nice guy, Bae is. The lieutenant he works for is the best swordsman in the Guard." Terrowin yammers on as Rumple serves him breakfast. He's just a kid himself, probably no older than Bae; he describes his job as messenger for the General. "Got another year yet before they let me train for warfare. They're real strict about that. No one under nineteen can serve in a battle position. I want to be an archer. I'm good; I won an archery award back home."

Rumple sits down across from him and lets him chatter. The mere presence of this boy makes him feel closer to Bae. The uniform, the unbridled energy, the nonstop talking, and the drops of honey now staining the boy's tunic all seem _appropriate_ for breakfast in this house.

"Oh!" the boy yelps, leaping to his feet. "Forgot!" He stuffs a bread crust into his mouth, then dashes outside; in a blink he's back and dropping his saddlebags onto the table. He stuffs a spoonful of egg into his mouth and as he chews, he opens the bags to draw out an envelope (her characteristically messy penmanship, Rumple observes with glee) and a glove-box sized package wrapped in dyed paper. "F'm th' P'ncess," Terrowin manages around his food. He swallows. "I'm supposed to say, 'with her deepest thanks and congratulations.'" He gives an awkward bow before sitting down again to resume his meal.

Rumple resists the urge to hobble outside to open his gifts in private, but he does retreat the hearth. In his rocking chair, his back is turned to the table, affording him some privacy. He tucks the letter into his tunic for later reading, but he holds the box on his lap as he opens it, carefully preserving the pretty paper. The box did indeed once hold gloves, but now it contains a gold-plated whistle inscribed with his name—spelled correctly—and a sheet of linen paper embossed with the King's icon, a green M topped by a gold crown. In a stylish looping hand is written "The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by His Majesty to request your presence at a dinner meeting of the war council, two days hence at 9 of the clock. A carriage will be sent tomorrow at 7 of the clock to transport you to His Majesty's castle in Avonlea, where overnight accommodations will be provided. Please respond through the messenger bearing this invitation." Despite the latter sentence, Rumple senses that the only acceptable response on his part is _yes_ —not that he would refuse the King.

An additional line in a familiar spidery scrawl has been added to the bottom of the card: "I'd hoped this would be an opportunity for us to actually talk at last. We seem to work so well together, I'm sure we could have created additional ideas for dealing with the ogres. But alas, Mama and I have an urgent mission to undertake, for the war effort: we go with Lord Locksley and his grand Bow to Firefly Valley, where we will bargain, negotiate, argue, cajole, plead, or whatever else it might take to persuade the Queen of the Fairies to study the enchantment on the Bow. If she can replicate its magic upon our soldiers' bows, this war will soon be over. The one blessing in disguise here is that we have the perfect excuse to cancel the lavish birthday ball that the gray men have planned in my honor and against my will. (I fear, however, that they will resurrect their plans at Yuletide.) Please, please do accept my father's invitation nevertheless. He wishes to introduce you and your whistle discovery to his military advisers. He and I believe it may mark a turning point in the war. Your friend and co-researcher, Belle."

Rumple searches for a clean sheet of paper, but remembers he used his entire supply. He takes down the letter he wrote and adds to the top of it "I regret that we will not meet but I shall accept His Majesty's invitation with thanks. Your friend and collaborator, Rumple." She will learn of his appearance at court—and whether he's comported himself with dignity or made a fool of himself in front of all those educated and well-mannered people-before she receives this letter, but he wants to share his acceptance with her personally. . . especially if he does something stupid at the meeting and Maurice intervenes to cut off Belle's correspondence with him.

He has no paper with which to write his acceptance letter to the King (or should he address the letter to the Lord Chamberlain?); he'll borrow some from Morraine tomorrow. She keeps a boxful so that she can write to Bae.

"Mind if I use your privy?" the messenger stands and stretches. Rumple points in the right direction, adding, "You and your horse are probably tired. You're welcome to turn him loose in my neighbor's sheep pasture, then come back and sleep." He nods at Bae's pallet. "You'll find the blanket clean and the pillow recently refeathered."

"Thanks, sir. I _am_ kinda saddle sore."

With the boy outside, Rumple is free to read Belle's newest letter. He's glad he waited for privacy: some parts of the letter make him blush. Not that anything the Princess writes is unladylike, but she does tend to exaggerate her compliments and pepper her paragraphs with "my dear friend" and "my inventive hero."

He has the chance to reread the letter twice more before Terrowin opens the door, letting in the sunshine. The boy strips down to his longjohns before easing into the pallet. A quick goodnight and he's out like a light. The sleep of youth, Rumple thinks as he listens to the snores. May Terrowin and Bae enjoy it for years to come.

As for himself, Rumple has a royal dinner to prepare for.

* * *

Half the village—Rumple recognizes among them the faces of people who still despise and, in a few cases, openly revile him—line up along both sides of the main road as the shiny black carriage bearing the green M rumbles into town. Some of the onlookers know what's going on, but most are amazed when the carriage stops at Rumple's hovel and the footman steps down from the box and walks right up to the doorway, where Rumple, in his best tunic and trousers, leans on his mahogany cane. At his feet is a knapsack that contains a full set of court-worthy clothes borrowed from the tax assessor. There are breeches and matching stockings, pointed shoes, a shirt and a surcoat—all of which make Rumple sweat and itch, but the taxman assures him these clothes will enable him to blend in. Rumple had to apply a great many temporary stiches so the clothes would appear to fit him; he will restore them to their previous state as soon as he gets home.

The footman sweeps his plumed hat from his head and bows—slightly, because though his passenger is an invited guest of the crown, the footman still outranks him by any measure. "Rumplestiltskin, I presume?"

Rumple licks chapped lips. "Aye."

"Aalot, footman of His Majesty King Maurice, at your service. I shall serve as your valet. Should you require anything to make your journey to Avonlea more comfortable, or your stay at the castle more pleasant, you need only ask."

Rumple scrubbed his teeth, bathed and shaved this morning, and last night Gretchen cut his hair. The clothes he's wearing and those he's taking with him are the finest in Ramsgate. He is presentable and he knows it, yet the slightly cocked eyebrow with which the footman examines him suggests otherwise. Rumple reminds himself that he's going as an invited guest of the King, not a peddler this time—and whether any of the castle's servants know it or not, he's a friend of Her Royal Highness (though if he passed her in a corridor, she wouldn't know him from any other country bumpkin).

Despite the footman's lack of warmth, Rumple responds politely. "Thank you." He's not sure if a peasant should address a footman as _sir_ (funny thing: his instinct is to consult Belle on the matter. Then he realizes that would probably be an even bigger error in etiquette than to misaddress the footman. . . and _then_ he realizes that as far as his instinct is concerned, Belle's status as his friend takes precedence over her status with the rest of the world. Were he to tell her that he thinks of her as his friend first and his superior second, she would be pleased.)

"Shall we proceed, then?" the footman asks.

Rumple wonders briefly if he should invite the footman and the driver in for tea before they leave; surely they're thirsty after hours traveling on a dusty road. But the footman has already bent to pick up the backpack and the driver has already paid a lad to fetch pails of water for the horses, so Rumple meekly follows Aalot. The footman sighs with annoyance when he sees that the driver is busy watering the horses; though it's beneath him, he will have to extract the footstep himself and assist the disabled old man into the carriage. He gives his coat a jerk to relieve some of his frustration, then he moves to perform the duties required of him, only to find that the passenger has already opened the carriage door for himself and is struggling up the footstep.

"May I assist you"—there's a slight hesitation before Aalot adds, "sir?" He reaches for the covered basket resting in the crook of Rumple's left arm. "You need not bring any refreshment, sir. It is a long ride, but I've seen to your provisions."

"Not food," Rumple pants a little as he hauls himself, his basket and his cane into the carriage. "A birthday gift for the princess." As he sets the basket on the carriage floor, a black ear pokes out from under the cloth, soon followed by a squirming fur ball. Rumple tucks the cloth more tightly around the kitten. "Be still," he urges the wiggling gift.

Aalot humphs. "Really, the castle has no shortage of cats. . . sir. Now if you wish, we can stop at one of the shops in Avonlea and I can advise you on a suitable gift for Her Highness."

Rumple takes the basket onto his lap and strokes the kitten's silky ears. "No thank you. This gift will do fine."

Settling into the leather-padded seat, Rumple looks about curiously. He finds on the floor of the carriage a ceramic jug, which he discovers contains cool, sweet water, and a leather bag containing rolls, strips of dried venison, and several pieces of fruit. On the seat across from him is a stack of books tied with a red ribbon, and tucked on top is an envelope in familiar handwriting. His anxiety dissipates as he takes the envelope onto his lap. He almost forgets to say goodbye to his neighbors as the footman closes the carriage door, but shouts from Lucas, Morraine and Fort remind him to look outside and wave. "Good trip, Rum!" "I'll feed your lambs while you're gone, Rum!" "Don't forget to give Bae my letter!"

Rumple has never ridden in a carriage before, though he's passed a few as he's walked along the road to Avonlea. He finds them noisy and clumsy; this one, though better oiled and outfitted with springs to absorb the bumps, still lurches and thumps along the rutted road, and he has to soothe the kitten. Still, it's twice as fast as a man can walk—three times as fast as a man with a bad ankle can travel—so he's grateful for the transportation. The view from the elevated height is more pleasant, too. He doesn't spend long admiring it, however; he has a letter to read and reread.

She informs him that the books under the red ribbon are meant to keep him amused during the journey. One is a history of the city of Avonlea, with chapters devoted to Kings Aubin and Maurice. A slimmer volume describes life at court and answers for Rumple such burning questions as the difference between a valet and a footman—" _Now, I don't want you to feel as though you'll be tested on this information, but I thought it might make you feel a little more comfortable during your stay. But really, Rumple, just remember that when you're in Ravershire Keep, you're in our home and_ _you are our welcome guest_ _. It is the servants' job to make you comfortable; it is the royal family's job to make you feel at ease. And remember, my dear friend, that just one generation ago, my family was common. Grandfather Aubin was a lifelong military man, Grandmother Felisia was the daughter of a general; and my mother's people made their wealth by raising livestock (the tenderest beef in all of Misthaven). My father takes the measure of a man not by the cut of his clothes but the sharpness of his mind and the sincerity in his words. He will respect you, Rumple. For my sake, he already likes you._

" _I wish I could be there to introduce you to him. I would dearly love to show you my school and the library. But the sooner we persuade the fairies to assist us, the sooner all our soldiers can come home, so I must go. There will be another time, Rumple. Please enjoy your stay._

" _Your friend, Belle."_

 _Another time._ He folds the letter and tucks it into one of the books. _For my sake._ The ride doesn't seem so bumpy now.


	13. Dinner and Questions

"Bae!"

"Papa!"

"Bae!"

From his seat beside the driver, Aalot snorts in derision as his charge throws open the carriage door. The ignorant, ill-mannered man doesn't wait, as would be proper, for the footman to lower the iron step and assist him down; instead, he plants his cane on the ground and uses it as a prop so that he can jump the two feet from the carriage body to the grass. Aalot climbs down gracefully—no need to rush, now—and unloads the passenger's luggage (the sad little backpack and that smelly hairball in the wicker basket). He stands proud, hoping the other servants passing by won't see what he's carrying, while he waits for the peasant and his offspring to finish their greetings. Peasants indeed: the noise they're making, and all that hugging, it's as if they think they're meeting up in a tavern instead of on the King's homeland.

"We're going to have dinner with the King _and_ the war council!" Bae gushes.

"I know!"

"They want to hear all about the whistle. They're calling it the Spinner's Whistle. The King has ordered every tinker in Avonlea to stop what they're doing and start producing these whistles. He wants one for every soldier by the end of the month—that's ten thousand whistles, Papa! They're making ten thousand whistles on _your_ design." Bae links his arm in his father's and leads him toward the barracks. He's an inch taller now than Rumple, and that would have been the beginning of a change in their relationship, but they're both too flabbergasted to notice. "We're going to meet the generals, Papa! All twenty of them!"

"Twenty!" Rumple nervously licks his lips. As they stroll through the yard, men and women in all styles of dress, from threadbare dresses and faded aprons to patched and stained uniforms, pass by, and most of them nod or speak a friendly greeting to the newcomer. It's because of Bae, Rumple is sure; Bae is so outgoing and bold, surely everyone knows and likes him. "The King asked me to explain how the whistle works, but to talk in front of twenty generals. . . .I've never talked in front of a group before, let alone important men. How can I—"

"I'll be there, Papa. I have a seat near the end of the table, next to Fendral. And your seat will be across from me."

"Oh, Bae, how—"

"Don't worry, Papa. The King will be sitting beside you. That shows he believes in you. Or your whistle, anyway. He'll believe in you after he meets you."

"Sir," Aalot is struggling to keep up (how can a lame man walk so fast?) and keep the cat stuffed inside the basket. " _Sirs_. A moment, please."

Rumple and Bae stop and turn, both having forgotten Aalot's presence.

"Sir," the footman pants. "You're going the wrong way. A room has been prepared for you in the castle." He glances meaningfully at the cane. "On the fifth floor. . . but I shall speak to the Butler about relocating you to the first floor."

"But I want to show him the barracks, where I sleep," Bae protests. He tilts his head in that direction. "It's not far, Papa."

"Very well," Aalot huffs. He sets the luggage down and whistles at a passing servant. "Here, boy. Take these to the Butler and ask him to prepare a ground-floor bedchamber for our guest. Hurry, now." The lad bows slightly and runs off with the bag and basket. Aalot gestures to the barracks. "Proceed, then, Squire." He groans under his breath. "I shall follow."

As Aalot stands awkwardly to the side, trying not to get dirty or get bumped into by entering or existing soldiers, Bae throws himself upon his bunk and invites his father to be seated next to him. "This is where I sleep." He points to the bunk above. "Up there is Will, he's Lieutenant Lief's squire." He points to other bunks. "And Squires Favian, Tristan and Janshai. Our masters sleep in the bigger barracks behind this one. All us guardsmen eat together, with the soldiers, one hundred of us, at a big table in the army cookhall." Bae flops onto his back, his arms behind his head. "It's a good life. A lot of marching and stuff, though."

Rumple is looking around. The barracks is clean and warm, but more utilitarian than comfortable. "So you're happy, then?"

"I am, Papa. I'm helping." Bae raises up on his elbows. "And so are you! Papa, the guys can't stop talking about your invention. They don't get how it works, but they're awfully glad it does. Now if the fairies will just help with our bows, we'll wrap this war up before the end of the year, Fendral says."

"That long?" Rumple frowns. "Belle—Her Highness, I mean, and I thought it would go much faster."

"Ogres are stubborn as mules and not much smarter, Fendral says. I've seen 'em and I believe it. It'll take a while before the word gets around from one herd of 'em to the others and they realize they can't win against the Spinner's Whistle and the Magic Bows. We're gonna win this, Papa, and a big reason why is you."

"Her Highness is really the one—"

Bae grins. "She's smart, isn't she? And nice. Everybody here loves her."

"She'll be a wonderful queen," Rumple agrees.

Aalot clears his throat, but Rumple and Bae ignore him and go on talking. Rumple wants to know the minutiae of his son's everyday life, though he's heard it all before; now he's here to see it for himself. He's reassured that Bae has a comfortable place to sleep and plenty to eat, and more importantly, prospects for a future that will afford him a home and a family. Bae is taken care of. Rumple's heart swells: it was touch and go there for a while, but he managed to raise a healthy, happy boy to young manhood. And now it's time to let him go, and to start thinking about his own future.

There's a secret not even Bae knows: Rumple really isn't a loner by nature. He hasn't had friends until recently, but he's always had someone he could lean on: the spinster sisters, then the master spinner he apprenticed with, then Milah, and finally Bae. Now he has friends, yes, and that's a comfort, but as he lies here on the bunk staring up at the mattress above, he regrets that tomorrow he will go home alone. At least he has a cat waiting at the hearth.

"Sir." Aalot speaks up. "Pardon the interruption, but dinner will be served in one hour. You'll want to bathe and shave before then, of course." He wrinkles his nose. "We have a new suit of clothes waiting in your room."

"Of course." Rumple leans on his cane to slide off the bunk. "All right, Bae. I'll see you in an hour, then."

Aalot walks a half-step behind Rumple as he escorts the spinner to the castle. The distance is close enough to direct Rumple's steps but far enough away to be respectful—Aalot's had plenty of experience in minding guests. He's also aware that the other servants will be observing his behavior with Rumple (they have it in for him, he's sure of it; they grumble and gossip about him behind his back, calling him "snooty" and "uppity"). Never mind the fact that the spinner is uncouth and uneducated and smells of sheep and lanolin—hardly deserving of an audience with a general, let alone an invitation to dinner with the King.

They pass through the kitchen first and are stopped by the cooks and the maids, who greet Rumple warmly and make a fuss, offering a warm drink and a snack after his long journey. Aalot waves away the cooks' offerings, reminding Rumple that dinner will be served in only an hour. The cooks natter on anyway (though keeping their hands busy with the finishing touches to the six-course meal), praising Bae, praising Rumple for his parenting, praising his thread (one of the maids spins around in her dress to model it: "I've had this dress for three years and it looks good as new, thanks to your thread."). But above all, they praise his whistle, which will surely bring the war to a swift end. One of the cooks even hugs him tight to her amble bosom and plants a kiss on his cheek. "My son is the Biot Regiment. May your whistle bring him home soon."

Rumple opens and closes his mouth helplessly. Ironically, it's Aalot who rescues him, pulling him by the arm toward the servants' stairwell. "We've got you a room on the second floor. It's a small flight of stairs. A hot bath and shaving gear await."

The room Rumple is led to overlooks the yard where the Avonlea Regiment and the Home Guard train. That is of such importance to Rumple that he barely notices that the room is small but clean and decorated with vases of flowers and wall tapestries depicting forest scenes. In one corner is a changing screen; in another is a small table holding a tray with a hairbrush and shaving gear. In the center of the room is a steaming tub, on the lip of which is hooked a scrub brush. A bar of soap sits on a fluffy towel on a nearby chair. Rumple stands at the window, watching riders put their horses through their paces on the training field. Aalot coughs politely and when Rumple turns around, the servant's fingers fly to the ties of Rumple's tunic.

"What are you doing?" Rumple squeaks, jumping backwards.

Aalot jerks back too, then a supercilious smile takes over his features. "Ah, of course. It's the function of a footman to assist guests in dressing for dinner. That includes shaving the guest, preparing him for his bath—"

Annoyed, Rumple waves his hand at the tub. "Does that include washing him too?"

"Certainly." The smile becomes smug.

"No it doesn't. Not with this guest, it doesn't." Rumple points to the door. "Come back when it's time to go down to dinner. I'll be bathed and shaved and dressed. Thank you just the same."

The door closes firmly in Aalot's face.

* * *

Rumple is sitting on the bed, and true to his word, he's washed, shaved and dressed, when Aalot returns to escort him downstairs to the Great Hall. "I shall leave you here," the footman says in the entranceway to the dining hall. "The butler will announce you and the dining staff will seat you. I'll return for you at 10 o'clock, which is when the King will say goodnight and depart for his private chambers. Good evening, sir."

The footman disappears and for a moment Rumple is peacefully alone. Then another servant, dressed fancier, Rumple thinks, than Aalot, appears at his side and bows slightly. "You are Rumplestiltskin of Ramsgate, sir? I am Ulrich, the butler. Welcome to Ravershire Keep. I shall announce you; Peyton will seat you. Should you require anything, simply signal Peyton. Enjoy your dinner, sir." He doesn't wait for a response. He steps inside the entranceway and booms, "Rumplestiltskin of Ramsgate."

The servant Rumple presumes to be Peyton comes to his side. "This way, sir." He escorts Rumple to a chair placed near the end of the dining table, where a group of uniformed soldiers are already seated. Rumple is relieved to see a freshly scrubbed Bae seated among them, to the right of Fendral. From their youth and the amount of braid on their shoulders, Rumple judges them to be low-ranking officers. Bae is grinning from ear to ear but he restrains his enthusiasm as Fendral introduces Rumple around. That he is Bae's father is enough to recommend him to the soldiers, and after a few polite questions about his journey, one of them resumes a battle story he was telling before the introductions.

Peyton pours Rumple a goblet of wine and fades back. Rumple welcomes the chance to catch his breath.

The timing of guest arrivals is all carefully planned out, Rumple figures out; it's according to rank, with the generals coming in last and taking seats at the top of the table. A few of them glance at him curiously over their goblets. He's the only civilian here, and despite his new clothes, he clearly doesn't belong. Nobody frowns at him, however; they're merely curious.

That is, until one young man, announced as "Major Gaston of Marlton," enters. He's late and he's loud, slapping the younger soldiers on the back and greeting them as his footman leads him to his seat at the fringe edge of the generals' section. The lieutenant seated to Rumple's left leans over to whisper, "His father's a lord, the richest in Aramore. Bought his rank."

The lieutenant to Rumple's right adds, "He expects to be a prince in the near future."

The left-side lieutenant snorts. "Her Highness will never have him. She's already told him so."

"Rumor has it there's another she's fixed her cap for." The right-side lieutenant jerks his head toward one of the tall windows behind them. "No one in _this_ county."

"Is his name known?" Rumple dares.

"Nah. But considering how much pressure Gaston's been putting on her, I reckon it won't be long till an engagement is announced, and then we'll all have a look at him."

"Shh, we're starting."

Ulrich bellows, "His Majesty, King Maurice."

Everyone stands and Rumple has to clutch his cane. It's already been a long day and his ankle is aching. He lowers his gaze to avoid appearing rude, but he sneaks peeks. After all, he's never seen a king before—and even more enticing is the fact that this is Belle's father. He wonders if she looks anything like him—and he hopes not, for Maurice is tall and broad as a bull. His nose is bulbous, his face heavily lined, and his ears poke out a bit from under his leather crown. He's wearing a gold-embroidered tunic that Rumple notices is just a little faded and frayed; this is to be expected in a time of war. Maurice shakes hands with the generals, then seats himself at the head of the table, signaling the other diners to be seated.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Maurice shakes out his napkin and spreads it across his lap; everyone else follows suit. Rumple thinks maybe this meal won't go too badly, if all he has to do is imitate the King's movements. Maurice raises his goblet as soon as Ulrich fills it. "We owe thanks tonight to Lieutenants Fendral and Borivoi for the quail on our table; their hunt yesterday was, as you can see, very successful." A throat is cleared loudly, and Maurice adds hastily, "And to Major Gaston, whose family provided the wine. Our thanks to you all. And now, let's eat."

Despite the presence of servants and dressy uniforms, the atmosphere is rather informal. When the King's plate has been filled and he's taken his first bite, everyone else digs in, scarfing down boiled eggs, roast quail, fried onions, frenched beans, pickled beets, and lots of bread. Around mouthfuls Maurice talks to the generals seated on either side of him, and they talk back freely; the only difference between the generals and the King, as far as their conduct goes, is that the former occasionally remember to refer to Maurice as "sire." They're soldiers, not visiting royals, Bae explains to his papa later; they've worked hard for their meal and place priority on it, over manners and chit-chat. But when the plates are removed and clean plates bearing cheese and sliced pears are carried in, Maurice stands, taps his knife on his goblet and calls out, "Gentlemen."

The men set down their knives and goblets and sit up straight. The Great Hall falls silent.

"Gentlemen, you know that Her Majesty and Her Highness are even now working with the fairies to discover the magic that enchants Sir Robin's longbow. You've also heard Fendral's reports from the field about the Spinner's Whistle. We believe, gentlemen, that these two innovations could turn the tide in this war."

A cheer goes up and Maurice sips his wine to allow the noise to fill the room. When the men are quiet again, he proceeds, "Tonight we extend our thanks to the two people who made these discoveries. It was my own daughter, I'm proud to say, who came up with the idea of copying Locksley's bow"—

One of the younger generals stands and raises his goblet in salute. "To Her Highness, Princess Belle!"

Men clamber to their feet and toast their beloved princess as her father grins broadly. He has to tap on his goblet again to summon silence—but not until a half-dozen toasts have been made to the princess' health, her cleverness, her beauty and her happiness. "Gentlemen, please. The other innovator whom we thank tonight is the father of one of our own, Squire Baelfire." All heads to turn Baelfire, who ducks his head modestly. "A very clever spinner from the village of Ramsgate, Rumplestiltskin. Stand up, Rumplestiltskin, and receive our thanks."

Rumple leans on his cane as he rises slowly to the applause of all these brave warriors. He has to blink back tears, overwhelmed by the attention, and especially the admiration of his son and the other young men at the table. He stares down at his plate and hopes the fuss will soon be over.

Again, the clink of a knife against glass summons silence. "Rumplestiltskin, this isn't just a celebration I've asked you to; it's an instruction." Maurice nods at Fendral, who reaches into his pouch for a Spinner's Whistle and lays it on Rumple's plate. "We know it works, enough so that I've ordered that every tinker in Avonlea to put aside their own projects and develop a Spinner's Whistle for every soldier in our armies. It works, but would you please explain how?"

Rumple is neither a scientist nor a public speaker, but he does his best to describe why the ogres are affected by the whistle, when humans aren't, and how he made his discovery (although he avoids mentioning Bae's failed business venture). He speaks slowly, careful about his accent, his grammar, and the accuracy of the details of his story. When he finishes, he doesn't know how to indicate he's come to the end of his story, so he raises and lowers his shoulders. "And that's all, sire." He remains standing, his legs shaking, waiting for permission to be seated.

Questions fly from the generals; he answers what he can, shakes his head in embarrassment when he doesn't know the answer. He admits his ignorance rather than attempt to cover it up, and he casts a glance at Bae, worrying that the boy will be ashamed as his father's lack of education is exposed. But Bae is beaming, and whatever questions Rumple can't answer, some of the science-minded among the diners tackle with their own theories and hunches.

The conversation moves from the whistle itself to plans for how best to employ it. Plates are cleared away, maps are hauled in, Fendral and his squad are ushered forward to show on the maps where they'd encountered the ogres upon which they'd experimented.

Over all the excitement, a skeptical voice rises. "Gentlemen, wait a minute, wait a minute. I want to know what education this man has, that _he_ should be instructing _us_? Has he ever set foot in a school? Can he even read?"

Fendral raises his voice too. "Before he answers that question, I got one for you, Major. All due respect, but _you_ 've had years of education. So how come he was the one to come up with this idea and not you?"

"Are you gentlemen aware of this man's background?" Gaston sneers. "I've made some inquiries. Before we risk our lives following this spinner's cockeyed notion, don't you want to know about his military history?"

Rumple lowers his head. He can't face any of them, least of all Bae.

"Major Gaston—" Maurice attempts to interrupt.

"Oh yes," Gaston continues. "He's a veteran, all right, a veteran of the First Ogre War. Ask him how he got that busted ankle. Ask him."

"Major Gaston!" Maurice shouts. "This man is a guest of the crown. You will shut up and sit down or I'll have you removed."

Gaston pales and starts to protest, but Ulrich suddenly appears at his elbow and that's signal enough that Maurice means business. The major drops down into his seat and gulps mouthful after mouthful of wine.

Maurice slowly moves his gaze from one general to the next. "I am aware of Rumplestiltskin's history. Of course I made inquiries. I would not have risked your lives or my people's hard-earned money on a notion without investigating its originator first. I tell you now, his past is irrelevant to our discussion. He's invented a device that can save lives; that's what is relevant; and my daughter and I trust him. If any of you must say otherwise, I will accept your resignation." He waits, shifting his gaze to the junior officers. He ends with a firm nod for Rumplestiltskin. "I apologize, Rumplestiltskin, for the rudeness of some of my soldiers. I reiterate, you have my thanks for your invention. Ulrich! More wine."

Maurice hunches over the maps and points at some landmark, calling his generals' attention to it. A breath later and the war talk resumes. "Your Majesty, Bogamir Province is called 'the Land of a Thousand Canyons.' Suppose we use a pincer movement in the south and push the ogres into Bogamir—"

With a sigh Rumple lowers himself to his seat and takes a swallow of wine. He's shaking. He has to know, so he raises his eyes to Bae. "Son?" That one word carries a hundred questions.

Bae reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. "Great job, Papa."

"Thanks, Bae."

One of the generals calls across the hall for Rumplestiltskin. "We have a question, sir, about the distance over which the whistle is effective."

"And if weather conditions may make a difference," another inquires.

Rumple isn't sure what's proper here, so he glances at Ulrich, but the butler is busy filling the King's cup. The footman Peyton solves the dilemma by picking up Rumple's cane and offering it to him. "May I assist you, sir, in going up front?"

"Th-thank you." His knees knock as he rises, even though Peyton holds both his elbow and his chair steady. Bae reassures him by whispering across the table, "The generals need you, Papa! The generals!" The boy's face shines with pride, and that gives Rumple the strength he needs to rise, follow Peyton on the long walk down to the front, and present himself to the general who first called for him. "Yes, sir. Well, yes, according my experiments, effective distance varies and is affected by such factors as wind and landscape—"

A calloused hand, much like his own, drops onto his left shoulder and urges him into the center of the crowd. Its owner, General Darain, asks him to use the maps to illustrate what he's talking about. These men are coarse, hardened by experience; they have much more in common with Fort and the other farmers back home than with the courtiers Rumple expected to meet after reading Belle's letters. Briefly he wonders where the gray men are; he supposes they're hovering in the background, as Belle so often has described them. Never mind; this is a military meeting and they have no place here, and His Majesty has made sure of that. Rumple feels his gratitude toward the King swell.

As he traces his finger along the symbols of a topographical map, he almost forgets that he doesn't belong here. The generals question him, debate with him—but they do that with each other, and it's never about _whom_ they're talking to but what they're talking about. Absorbed in the conversation, Rumple finds himself talking freely even with Maurice, until at last Darain announces to the others, "Well, gentlemen, I think we have a direction."

Ulrich takes this as an opening to murmur in His Majesty's ear, and Maurice reluctantly allows himself to be drawn back to the life of the court, though it's clear he'd much rather continue to hammer out battle plans. "What? Oh, yeah, thank you, Ulrich. Gentlemen, it's time we retired for the evening. I want to see a detailed plan tomorrow. We'll meet again at seven tomorrow night." Ulrich whispers something and Maurice snaps, "Let the Lord Chamberlain dine with them. And—" he waves his hand dismissively—"give them my apologies and tell them I'll breakfast with them."

Ulrich bows slightly and fades away, as the generals shake hands with other and the King and make their way to the exit. Aalot has appeared at Rumple's elbow and offers to escort him to his room, but Rumple begs, "Please, I see my son is waiting in the hall. May I walk him back to his barracks to say goodnight?"

Maurice, still bent over maps, overheads and huffs, "Of course you can, Rumplestiltskin. You're a guest here; we want you to feel at ease. Besides, Belle would rip my ear off if I denied you anything." He clasps Rumple's back. "Thank you for coming. I know it was a long, bumpy ride—I plan to work on rebuilding roads as soon as this war is over. We appreciate your input. Just sorry Belle couldn't be here. Believe me, she fussed when I asked her to go to Firefly Valley, but she's a favorite of the fairies—they bestowed blessings upon her on her naming day."

He watches closely as Rumple answers, "I would have liked to meet her, too, but of course anything that shortens the war must take precedence."

Maurice's body language and tone grow quiet now. "That's right. I'll convey your regrets to her." He offers his hand. "Go ahead now and say goodnight to your child. I wish I could do the same for mine, but perhaps now we're not so far off from the day when all of Aramore's papas can have that luxury, eh?"

"I hope so, sire."

"Good night, Rumplestiltskin."

"Good night, Your Majesty."

* * *

They're both worn out, but as they walk across the lawn to the noisy barracks, Bae is chattering like a bluejay. Rumple soaks up his praise—Bae's never been stingy in that regard, but neither has he had a lot of cause for pride in his father. Under the sliver of moon, they have to feel their way through the dark, but Bae's traveled this path many times before. Absorbed as they are in conversation, they aren't aware that another has planted himself in their path until they've nearly bumped into him.

"You're the one, aren't you?" The voice is husky with anger and slurred with drink.

"Huh?" Rumple is too startled to find words.

"The one she _fancies_. The one she wants to _bed_." The voice's owner sticks his face in Rumple's, eyes him up and down with a sneer, flicks his finger against the embroidery on Rumple's tunic. "You! What the hell? _You_ , puny, short, smelly—"

"You're the one who smells right now, Major." Bae waves a hand to fend off the alcohol fumes issuing from Gaston's mouth. He tugs at Rumple's sleeve. "Come on, Papa, pay him no mind. He's drunk, like usual."

"—uneducated, unmannered peasant. My father is rich. I had a governess and private tutors. My mother is the niece of a baron. We own an entire county. Who the hell are you, spinner?"

Bae is leading Rumple away, but Gaston turns to trail behind. "Who's your father? Do you even own the hovel you live in, or are you a squatter? What business do you have, dining with the King like you're somebody? Why didn't you tell 'em, spinner, what you really are? How you got that?" He kicks at Rumple's cane. Rumple stops and turns around, and that pleases Gaston, so he kicks harder at the cane, sending it flying. Without it Rumple wavers, so Bae bends and searches for it in the dark grass.

"Leave us alone, Major." Rumple flattens his voice.

"You ran! You didn't even last through one battle, did you? You ran the night before. No." Gaston circles Rumple, like a cat entrapping a mouse. "No, that's wrong, you didn't run—you couldn't run!" He laughs harshly. "You busted your own leg so they'd send you home. Didn't you?" With a single finger, he pushes against Rumple's thin chest, knocking the spinner off balance. "I want you to go back in there and tell him the truth. Be a man. Tell him the truth. And then he'll make sure she chooses a real man, not a stinking peasant mouse."

"Get out of the way." There's a growl in Rumple's tone as he attempts to walk past, but Gaston clutches a fistful of Rumple's tunic.

"No. Not until you go back in there and tell him."

"Let go."

"That's my future in there. My wife. My father-in-law. My throne. It belongs to me. I earned it, with my blood on the battlefield, with my sweat, every time I had to kiss that old man's arse when my father could buy and sell ten of him. She's been mine from the day she was born. Did you know that, spinner? That old man promised her to my family. Why the hell do you think we've been shoveling money into his war? 'cause this is my kingdom, that's why. Promised to my father, the day she was born."

As Bae runs up bearing his cane, Rumple finds a strange strength in having his balance back. He slaps his hand around Gaston's wrist and digs his nails into the veins. "Let go." He gives Gaston a moment to comply.

"What are you gonna do, spinner?" the knight pokes Rumple in the chest again, but this time, Rumple stands like a rock. Annoyed, Gaston pokes again; Rumple doesn't budge. Frustrated, Gaston flattens his hand and shoves; Rumple stumbles but doesn't fall.

"Out of my way, Gaston."

Bae hovers in the background. "Papa, let's go."

Rumple glances over his shoulder and nods at his son, then steps around Gaston, but the knight kicks at his bad ankle. A flash of bright light behind his eyes fills Rumple with memories of every sneer, every insult, every slap and kick and punch he's ever suffered. He remembers every detail of every incident and a single thought consumes him: No more. It's a stupid move, but he jabs his cane into Gaston's belly, then cracks it on his neck when Gaston doubles over.

"Are we done?" He tries to sound bored, but he's shaking as he steps past his assaulter.

Bae grabs Rumple's arm and steers him toward the castle. "Come on, Papa, we gotta get out of here before he straightens up. I need to get you inside—"

"What happened here?" General Darain's voice cuts through the night. He's shoeless, shirtless and fastening his trousers as he emerges from the darkness.

"Aw, hell, we woke him up," Bae hisses. "We're in deep trouble now."

Rumple stands straight, his hands folded atop his cane, as Bae frets behind him. Gaston, moaning, has sunk to his knees. As the general approaches, Rumple remains silent, letting the scene speak for him.

The general sizes him up. "Oh. Sultskin." He pokes his bare foot into Gaston's ribs, and Gaston replies by vomiting in the grass. "Major. Of course," Darain grumbles. "If we weren't down to a draft. . . "

"My father is a personal friend of His Majesty."

"Uh huh." Darain is unimpressed.

"I'm engaged to the Princess."

"Uh huh." Darain clears his throat. "Pack your sack, Gaston. I have a new assignment for you. You're assuming supervision of the Nangarth Outpost, effective immediately. Ride out tomorrow."

"But Nangarth is in the desert! There's no action there!" Gaston struggles to sit up.

"Right."

"There's no one for me to command—it's a one-man post!"

"Right."

"You can't send me there. I need to be here. I'm engaged to the Princess."

Gaston grabs the general's ankle; whether it's meant as a threat or a plea, the general finds the gesture distasteful enough that he borrows Rumple's cane and whacks Gaston. "Release me, Captain."

"I'm not a captain—"

"You are now. Want to try for lieutenant?" The general extracts his foot from Gaston's grip. "Report to the brig. You'll spend the night there. Try to dry out, Gaston; you have a long ride tomorrow. Squire, help the lieutenant find his way to the brig."

"Yes, sir." Bae bows and hauls Gaston to his feet. They lumber off as Darain apologizes. "Sorry, Sultskin. A guest of the King should expect better from His Majesty's soldiers."

He's tempted to mumble an apology of his own, an _I deserved it_ or _I'm just a peasant, like he says_. But Darain's hand is out, waiting to be shaken, and Rumple remembers what the Princess wrote: _You are our welcome guest_. He shakes the hand silently.

"I'm not sure about your whistle, but you gave us something we haven't had in months: a new idea. You've got my respect, Sultskin."

"Thank you, General." Rumple doesn't bother to correct Darain's mistake in his name.

* * *

As always, Rumple awakens at the crack of dawn with a cat walking on his chest. He carefully lifts the kitten down to the stone floor before making use of the chamber pot and the wash basin. His stomach growling like the cat's, he shaves, combs his hair and scrubs his teeth with ash, then straightens the blanket on the bed he slep in so comfortably last night. The cat wraps herself around his legs and yeowls to inform him of her hunger. He isn't sure what the polite thing to do would be, but he can't let Belle's birthday gift starve, so he tucks her into his tunic and as lightly as he can, under the burden of the cat and the cane, he makes his way down the dark stairs to the kitchen.

One of the cooks is stoking the fire. He greets her; she welcomes him again, for he's no longer just Bae's father; he's now a contributor to the war effort. Rumors spread fast even among a large staff.

"It'll be an hour until breakfast," she says sympathetically, "but if you don't mind sitting with us—I mean, I know you're a guest of His Majesty. . . ."

"I would be pleased to." He slides into the proffered chair.

"Esme will be down in a minute, and the maids. I'm getting some oatmeal on for us, soon as the boy fetches the water in." She sets a teakettle onto the fire.

"I wonder if I might have a little slice of raw meat or cheese." He removes the kitten from his tunic but holds her firmly in his lap; people will be dashing in and out of the kitchen, and he doesn't want her underfoot. "For her. She's a gift for the Princess."

The cook crouches to scratch the cat behind its ears. "She's pretty."

"Do you think B—Her Highness will like her?"

"I'm certain she will."

The cook gasps and scrambles to her feet. She bows deeply as she stumbles backward. "Y-Your Majesty!" Her hands twist in her apron as she remains in her bow, awaiting orders.

The King comes down the servants' stairs, as Rumple had. Of course he can go wherever he likes—it's his castle—but the gray men will certainly have something to say about this infraction of the rules. The servants too—there are certain spaces that they consider their own, where they talk freely and don't have to worry about a smudge on their cheeks or a lock of hair out of place. Their quarters, their stairs and the kitchen are among those places, as Rumple knows from Belle's and Bae's letters. Belle has always been allowed into those spaces, because she was such a curious, democratic-minded child; the rest of her family has never set foot in any of those spaces.

Until, obviously, now.

Rumple clambers to his feet too, as the cook inquires, "M-may I get something for you, sire? A cup of tea? Breakfast isn't ready yet, but—"

Maurice seats himself across from Rumple and with a gesture, indicates that Rumple should be seated too. "A cup of tea would work wonders, thanks, Helena. I don't mean to upset the usual order of things. I just couldn't sleep, my wife being gone, and I heard voices, so. . ." He shrugs as the cook rushes to prepare a cup of tea, adding two drops of honey and a teaspoon of milk. She knows, of course, every detail of the Royal Family's dining preferences. Belle complains that the desire to please the family robs them of any culinary surprises, so that's one of the reasons she likes to eat with the cooks.

As Rumple receives his cup with thanks, he realizes he knows a whole lot about a woman he's never actually met. And now he's drinking tea with her father.

"Something to eat, sire?" Helena hovers over the table.

The King nods toward the ball of fur yeowling on Rumple's lap. "After her. Belle would never forgive us if we let her kitten go hungry."

Helena dashes about, plating a slice of raw pork, then she cuts it into small bites and sets it before the cat. Rumple tries to keep her on his lap, but she leaps onto the table so she can reach the plate easily. She paws at a piece of meat, sniffs, then chews.

"Belle will have fun with her. Thank you, Rumplestiltskin. She'll bring laughs into a household that much needs it."

"I was afraid, sire, that with so many cats in the barns, such a commonplace gift would be unacceptable."

"A gift is never unacceptable, man. I've taught my daughters better manners than that."

"It's just that, this cat is the granddaughter of my own, and Belle's heard so many stories about her."

The King stirs his tea, then blows on it to cool it. "Did Belle tell you about Hunter?"

Rumple nods. "Her dog."

"She grew up with that dog. Found him as a stray pup, wandering in the marketplace when she was only ten. We didn't want him here; he was dirty and flea-bitten. But she argued day and night until we relented, on a trial basis. Clean the animal up, keep him outside, train him how to behave around all the horses and strangers that come and go here. She scrubbed him with lye, though he was twice as big as her, and she built a house for him in the barnyard. He followed her everywhere, sat at her feet while she read, trotted along behind her when she walked through the woods. That dog—" Maurice shook his head and blinked. "That dog ended up saving her life last year. She and her mother were en route to visit her sister. That old dog ran alongside the carriage. Three days going, three days back. I don't know how he kept up, but I thank the gods he did, because highwaymen waylaid the carriage. Who knows what they would have done to the women, if the dog hadn't fought them, bought the footman and the driver enough time to unsheathe their daggers. The dog died protecting them."

Even the cook paused in her work to bend her head in tribute to the brave animal. Rumple had read this story and understood that Belle missed her old friend terribly; it had been a factor in his decision to gift her with the cat. He wonders now if he should have tried to buy a dog.

But Maurice sets his mind to ease by reaching across the table and scooping up the cat. He drags the plate across the table to allow the kitten to continue to eat while he pets her. "Belle will be delighted. On her behalf, I thank you."

Helena has put the oatmeal on to boil and sliced a loaf of bread, which she plates for her unexpected guests. A small boy splashes in through the backdoor with a bucket of water; he gapes at the unfamiliar men seated at the table, but he doesn't recognize the King, so he just trots out again, on to another chore. Footfalls on the servants' stairs bring the men out of their reverie. Maurice rises, still holding the kitten; the tiny thing is hidden in his big hand. "Well," he clears his throat. "Guess it's time for the household to start the day. I have a state breakfast," he winces, "that I must prepare for." He nods at the kitten. "I'll take her upstairs with me."

Rumple rises and Helena stops what she's doing to bow again.

Maurice offers his hand. "Good journey, Rumplestiltskin."

"Thank you, sire."

Maurice pauses at the doorway that leads to the Great Hall. "And thanks for Gaston. You got him out of my hair. Belle's too." He seems to want to say more as he studies Rumple, but whatever he's thinking, he holds in. He settles for, "I'm sure Belle will keep you apprised of what happens with the whistles."

* * *

Bae is there, holding the horses, when Aalot, carrying Rumple's bag, and Rumple come down to the barnyard to the waiting carriage. As Aalot loads the bag and the driver extends the step, Bae gives his father a quick hug. A puzzled look lingers in his eyes as he bids Rumple goodbye and promises to return home in three weeks. Before climbing into the carriage, Rumple smiles back at his son. He understands why Bae's puzzled; he's still surprised at himself for his actions of the night before. He can't explain why he struck Gaston. It was a foolish thing to do, could have put Bae in danger, or perhaps got him thrown out of the Home Guard. Could have earned Rumple a second broken ankle.

Still, Rumple's glad he acted like a fool for once in his life.


	14. Hopefully, Rumple

He's so tired when the carriage deposits him at the doorstep of his hovel, but the men who've delivered him are the King's men, so he invites them in to rest and eat. The driver starts to follow him inside, but Aalot declines the invitation for the both of them; "We can make it back to Faysea before nightfall. Duke Merek will provide us comfortable accommodation."

"But the horses need rest—"

"And so they shall have it, and all the grain they could desire, at the castle. This village boasts neither inn nor livery, and after that ride"—Aalot rubs his back—"I will not sleep on a pallet on a dirt floor."

Rumple tightens his mouth in annoyance at the implied insult, but what Aalot has said is true. "Have a cup of tea before you go, then. Let me call a boy to fetch water for the horses."

"Aye," the driver accepts before Aalot can speak.

His guests are no sooner settled with steaming mugs than the neighbors arrive, bearing platters piled with food. "Oh! I didn't know you had guests, Rumple," Gretchen says, but she comes into the hovel anyway, and Rumple knows it's a white lie; they're curious. The footman and the driver are as close as they'll ever come to royalty. So he invites them in and despite this initial protest, Aalot is fed, though he picks at the food and asks for spices and sauces, which neither Gretchen nor Rumple can provide. The driver, shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth, doesn't mind the plain fare. So Rumple and his unexpected guests, squeezed tight at the wooden table, bump elbows and chatter, answering questions about their journey, the castle, the outcome of the meeting, and most of all, Bae's health and happiness.

Morraine's questions reassure Rumple of her continuing interest in Bae, and he exchanges a knowing smile with Lucas. Rumple feels particularly old today, after being jostled and tossed and bumped and banged for incessant hours on end, and it gives him a measure of peace to think that the next generation will soon be ready to step into the business of family rearing. Through Bae and Morraine, the family will continue.

The royal representatives stay less than an hour before Aalot requires them to leave. As they mount the carriage box and Lucas, Gretchen and Morraine bid them farewell, Rumple notices that other village folk have come out of their homes, barns and businesses to watch. Once again, for the fifth time in recent memory, Avonlea has come to Ramsgate. Someday strangers in town will be commonplace. The world is shrinking, and in a way, Rumple has made it so.

"We want to hear about the King," Fort booms even before he, Tarrin and Rulf have crossed Rumple's lawn. "And so do half the town. Come on, we got a tavern full of fellas who want to buy you drinks."

"What's he look like? Is he big, like they say?" Tarrin blurts as they usher Rumple to the Hog's Head. "Big as us? Think I could take him in a wrestlin' match?"

His brother breaks in. "Forget the King. I want to know about the Princess." He whistles between his teeth.

"See there, Rum? Ever'body's got to know. I can see you're tired, but how often do the squeeze-pennies here offer to buy a guy drinks? So come on, have a few; it'll help you sleep."

It's past midnight when Rumple is finally released from his friends' and neighbors' custody. As he nods, half-dozing, before his fire, he muses that the cat on his lap was the impetus for all this change: the change in Ramsgate, the change in himself. "You did good, little furry one," he informs her, but her blinking eyes reply that she already knows that. He scratches her ears in reward.

* * *

" _Dear Rumple,_

" _It took three days, every humble and charming flattery in my mother's being and every pretty word in my vocabulary, but we have a deal with the fairies. We are now on our way home, and so glad to be out of Firefly Valley, for though it's as lovely as it sounds, its sole residents are dwarves and fairies, and we had to sit on tree stumps and sleep in a tent on the ground._

" _The fairies were reluctant to act against the ogres. Though of course their magic can protect them easily against any size or number of enemy, it's part of their nature not to intervene in the activities of other races, even humans, with whom they have had a close relationship for eons. They prefer, so they say, to get involved at the individual level, and far in advance of any serious problems. It's why they will choose certain babies and children to deliver blessings and wishes to, so that those children will grow up to be leaders who can affect change from within their own lands. They choose their interventions carefully, picking children whose bloodline, social position, cleverness or courage will bring them into leadership when they have grown up. They are working at the cosmic level; the problems of small, insignificant humans don't interest the fairies. Not that they aren't sympathetic to the plight of the poor, the sick, the elderly—it's just that any act of magic, however small, can have unexpected consequences, so the fairies must pick and choose. This is what the fairies tell us. Mother and I think it's a bunch of hogwash. (Well, truthfully, we think it's a bunch of what you get after the hogs have been washed.) But we took advantage of that philosophy and reminded them that as royals, we are most definitely in a position to make things happen; that Aramore is the largest and most naturally diverse of all the kingdoms in this realm, and if Aramore falls, so too will all other human settlements; and that some of the blessings they bestowed upon me (a long, productive life; the continuation of my family's lineage; a happy and profitable reign) when in the cradle cannot come to pass if an ogre eats me._

" _So after bowing, scraping and talking ourselves breathless (I know now firsthand how desperate some of the commoners feel when they come to my father to plead for help), we convinced them. We have brought them Robin's Bow, along with bows of the make that our army's archers use; they will study the enchantment upon Robin's Bow; and they will attempt to duplicate it upon our own bows. They will not stop their work until they've succeeded._

" _I know Father will be proud of us, I know we've done well for Aramore, but Rumple, right now, apart from tired, all I feel is frustration. Can't the fairies smell the battle fires? Can't they hear the screams of our dying? If they aren't compassionate enough to care about us at the individual level, aren't they smart enough to realize that if Avonlea falls, Aramore falls; if Aramore falls, all of Misthaven falls; if Misthaven falls, humanity is doomed._

" _In calmer moments, observing the Fairy Queen, I know she's just doing what she considers best for her people, including preserving their principles. Observing my mother as she negotiates and treats, I can see that both pride and humility are required. Observing my father as he agonizes over separating families to send troops into battle, I wonder if I will ever be strong enough to do the same. Those who believe the life of a royal is all balls, feasts, gowns and hand-waving are crazy._

" _Rumple, I wonder if I'm capable of making the hard decisions that a Queen must make. My father has taught me that wise advisors are necessary to a productive rule, but he has shown me that having an understanding spouse is just as important. It's to my mother's arms that he retreats after he's signed the orders to send men and women to war. It's his sense of duty that gives him the strength to pick up the pen and sign, but it's Mother that gives him the strength to get up the next morning._

" _The gray men tell me that a marriage must be strategic, bringing money or land or connections into the family. I agree about strategy—but the strategy the royal must take is to select the mate that will best comfort, support, encourage, correct and guide him. Or her. The mate who brings love into the marriage._

" _My mother meets with the clergy tomorrow, to ask them to call for a day of prayer for the success (and speed) of the fairies' work. She and my father and I are already praying. I know you are too._

" _Thank you, Rumple, for listening to my ramblings and my rants._

" _Your friend, Belle"_

* * *

" _Dear Rumple,_

" _We have arrived safely home, to happy reports of your meeting with the generals. My father is pleased and impressed (and hard at work in drawing up battle plans)._

" _Upon arriving home to throw myself in exhaustion onto my bed, what did I find awaiting me at the threshold to my bedchamber? A small, furry and affectionate little birthday gift from my dear friend! She is a delight, Rumple, and already brings me joy with her antics. Unladylike though it may be, my mother and I sit on the floor after supper and play with her, and I allow her to sleep at the foot of my bed. As I watch her 'hunt' bits of yarn, I am reminded of the Midnight stories you've told me. I have often wished to meet Midnight, but now I have a bit of her to cuddle. Thank you, my friend! A more welcome gift could not have awaited me—unless (forgive me for seeming petty) it was the news that Gaston has been sent on a long, long mission, after his attack upon you. For which I am sorry, but from what I hear, you acquitted yourself admirably. As you know, he has been quite the pest and I am relieved to see the back of him._

" _Now I must take you to task, my friend, for telling me falsehoods. In your letters, you have described yourself as a coward, a pariah, a dull man whose qualities drove a wife away. The writing of your letters has long made me suspicious of these claims: your words live on the page, Rumple. They bring Ramsgate to me. Your ideas reveal a mind of avid dreams and quick connections. Your son—whom I have come to know well and delight in, he's become such a help to me in my school—is the product of wise parenting. And now I have the reports of so many who are close to me, whose opinions I trust, that cast the light of truth on your humble lies. Yes, there are those here who disparage you for your lack of education and breeding, but they are fools. You have been listening to the likes of them for far too long, I fear. Listen to General Darain, who speaks of your sound common sense. Listen to Helena, who speaks of your attentiveness, so impressed is she that you took the trouble to learn her name. Listen to my father, who speaks of your dignity in addressing a room of strangers, and your patience with their questions, and your honesty in your answers. Listen to my mother, who, though she didn't get to meet you, feels that she knows something of your caring, through the gift you brought me, not meant to impress or to show off, but rather to comfort._

" _So I think you lie, Rumplestiltskin, when you call yourself a coward and a dull man, and I think your wife must have been a fool to walk away from a wonderful son and a caring, attentive, dignified man. If I ever cross paths with her, I will tell her so (and thank her for her stupidity, because if she hadn't left, I doubt I would have ever found your friendship)._

" _And now I ask you to promise to allow me to form my own impression. When next you come to Ravershire to sell your thread, allow me to meet you. After all, a future Queen must learn to judge for herself, yes? Besides, I'm sure you'll want to see Athena again (which is what I've named your gift)._

" _Your friend, Belle"_

Does that count as a royal command? Dare a spinner refuse a princess? Rumple has two months to work up the courage to face a second royal.

To face the woman he's come to depend upon.

* * *

"Bae!" Morraine's shout rings across the village and Rumple grabs his cane to come running. If Bae is home, a week early, that must mean he's wounded.

By the time Rumple makes it to the lawn, Bae is already engulfed in Morraine's arms and she's brazenly kissing him. Her embarrassed father has to pull her away. Gretchen is touching his shoulders, his arms, examining him: "Are you hurt?"

The boy appears puzzled, then laughs. "No, I'm fine. I'm early because—" he interrupts himself as he sees his father coming. He throws his arms around Rumple before finishing, "I'm early because my unit is going out on a mission next week, so Lieutenant Fendral gave me a few days off."

"A mission," Rumple frets. "If they're sending the Home Guard out to battle—"

"I didn't say 'battle,' Papa," Bae corrects. "Consider it a training mission. We're going out to Bogamir, to scout out good locations for battle. We'll test the whistles in various canyons and teach the soldiers how to use them. Meanwhile, Sir Robin and General Darain will be training the archers in how to use their newly enchanted bows." He grins. "It worked, Papa. The fairies duplicated the magic and they're casting spells even as we speak."

"Belle must be pleased," Rumple murmurs.

But Bae huffs. "Belle? Yeah, but what about the entire army and all the generals and _all the kingdom_ , Papa? 'cause if this works like it seems to, this war is over."

"Well, come in, Bae and Rumple," Gretchen invites. "I have fresh bread in the oven."

"I want to hear these battle plans," Lucas says.

"I'm just glad you're home." Morraine links her arm in Bae's.

"As am I," Rumple adds.

"Let's celebrate, then. I have a keg of lager that's been waiting for an occasion," Lucas boasts.

As they walk into the hovel, Bae winks at his father. "And I have some books from the royal library for you, Papa, like usual. And letters from Belle. Who's been asking me a lot of questions about you, Papa." He raises his eyebrows innocently. "Maybe you want to ask some about her?"

"Maybe." Rumple's eyes twinkle. "Tonight. When we're alone."

* * *

Wrapped inside the first letter is a saucer-sized sketch of a familiar furry face, though attached to a longer body than he remembers.

" _Dear Rumple,_

" _My maid, Eloise, drew this sketch of Athena. Although she's been with us only a month—Athena, I mean, not Eloise!—as you can see, she's nearly doubled in size. She's all paws and ears, a blur as she hunts down mice (my mother refuses to admit we have any in the castle, but we do, but thanks to Athena, that will be a short-lived condition. My father says she's almost as good a hunter as he is.). As she runs from floor to floor, she skitters and slides and sometimes goes crashing into furniture, and she makes us all laugh. You really should see how she's grown. Really, you should._

" _So when? When will you come to the castle next? Please do give me notice so that I'll be sure to be here and not in the village, shopping, or out on some mandatory call to the noblewomen of the kingdom._

" _Your friend, Belle"_

Rumple parcels out the remaining letters—there are three—and the books, carefully arranging the letters according to their dates and the books according to the urgency of their subject matter (anything about ogres and the science of sound will take priority over histories, biographies and travelogues). He will read voraciously from the urgent books, but everything else will be treated as a delicacy, a small sweet to be savored at the end of his day.

He's had a long talk this evening with Bae, a talk that changed their relationship. They both felt it. At first awkward and blushing, Rumple stuttered over his questions about Belle, but Bae answered them in detail, without teasing, and without withholding information, even the few bits that painted Belle in a less flattering light—which, conversely, made Rumple appreciate her more, as through Bae's honest portrayal of her, she became real in his eyes, flawed, and therefore reachable.

There's something else, too, in Bae's description: an openness and frankness that one man gives as a gift to another, when the level of trust between them is high. Rumple sits back in his rocking chair when he realizes it: Bae is a man now. Not quite seventeen, so chronologically, still a youth, but in his heart, a man, talking not to someone he expects will judge or criticize him, but to another man.

Bae had concluded with a gentle push for action. "Belle is twenty-seven now, three years older than the oldest unwed princess in Aramoran history. You should know, Papa, what that's doing to her and her parents, the pressure that's being put on her from all sides to marry. Not from her father and mother—they respect her decisions, though His Majesty does mention sometimes that he's nearly sixty and would like to bounce a grandchild on his knee while he still has knees to bounce on. Everyone else, though, from the chimney sweeper on up to the Lord Chamberlain, openly complains about the lack of an heir. Papa, ten years ago, Belle had suitors lined up all the way from the castle door to the Green Mountains, knights and dukes and princes, even a widowed king and a couple of sorcerers. She turned them all away, and as long as she was seventeen, that was okay. Let her take her time, the public said, after all, she's not just choosing for herself but for all of us for all the future. She turned eighteen, and they rubbed their hands and said now, now she'll start to yearn for romance, but she kept turning the suitors away. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, and they said she was too picky, too snooty. Twenty-two, twenty-three and they said there's something odd about her. Her father really should put his foot down; it's one of the most important duties of a king, to protect the throne. Twenty-four, twenty-five, and the lines were a lot shorter now, and some of the men standing in them were unsuitable. She's still a pretty woman, they say, and of course a future queen is always an object of desire, but the public and the nobles both are openly criticizing her and Maurice and Colette, and behind the curtains, some of the larger, more powerful families are questioning whether it isn't time for a new bloodline on the throne. Do you see what I'm saying, Papa?"

Rumple had nodded slowly. "My friendship with her is holding her back, keeping her from having the family she deserves."

"No, Papa," Bae groaned. "That's _not_ what I'm saying at all. What I'm telling you is, if you think you could love here ou need to tell her before it's too late and she marries someone else."

"But she's twenty-seven; I'm forty-seven. She's cultured and—"

"Papa, if every man made a list of all the objections a woman might have— _might_ have, I said—to his suit, the human race would cease to exist in a generation. And before you start on the whole 'royalty' argument, she's probably spoken five thousand words about you to me, and not one of them has been 'peasant.' In fact, she's started taking spinning lessons because, she said, it sounds like a relaxing pastime."

"It's one thing when a spinner courts a seamstress or a barmaid, and only their families have the right to an opinion on the matter, but when a future queen considers marriage—"

"You're trying to cross the ocean when you haven't even built the boat. She wants to meet you. That's all. She's never mentioned anything more than that. It's rude to keep a lady waiting, and didn't you always teach me to be considerate of a lady's feelings?"

He reached for the last straw, but it was a flimsy one. "She's not expecting me until I'm ready to go to market again, another two months."

"Papa, don't be daft. Like Lucas says, either cast your line into the water or pack up your pole and go home."

Bae is in bed now, worn out from his long day; he lies on his back, the cat on his chest, and Rumple can't tell which of them is snoring, but someone definitely is, as energetically as Fort sawing logs for the winter. Rumple asks himself frankly whether he's dragging his feet because of all the things wrong with a potential courtship between him and Belle, or if he's simply afraid that when she meets the real man behind those intelligent, insightful and charming letters she'll see what Milah saw.

He folds up Belle's letters neatly and secures them in their special box. Would it be crueler to ignore Belle's invitation than to let her lay eyes on him and break her illusion. The one thing Rumple can be sure of is that if he does nothing, Bae will have reason to consider him a coward.

"Dear Belle,

"On the first day of summer, my season's spinning will have yielded enough thread to bring to Ravershire and Avonlea"—

Rumple stops abruptly and throws the letter into the fire-not because he's changed his mind already, but because the tone of his letter hides his nervousness behind formality. He starts again.

"Dearest Belle,

"When Bae hands you this letter, go out onto your balcony and look down. The man with the cane in his hand and his heart on his sleeve is me.

"Hopefully, Rumple"

* * *

His knees are knocking and apparently Bae can hear them, because the boy slows down his steps as they reach the Y in the road. If they turn left, they'll reach the city proper in another three miles. Under normal circumstances, that's what they would do; with a cartload of baskets of thread to sell, they'd spend a day working a rented stall in the market square. But these are not normal circumstances and they have no cart, just a knapsack each, and they have two tasks ahead. Bae needs to report in with Fendral and immediately start to prepare the gear the two of them will need in Bogamir. He will need to pack tight, because they expect to be gone six weeks or more. Rumple will worry the whole time, of course, but he trusts Fendral to take care of his young charge.

It's himself he doesn't trust right now, for the task ahead of him. As they turn right without hesitation, he watches the foot of his cane as it makes steady and rhythmic contact with the dirt. It's pulling him along behind, leaving him no choice but to follow. When the wind rustles the trees overhead, he thinks he hears a name whispered: "Milah, Milah." Milah was a peasant girl from a large family of peasant girls. They had nothing but their looks and their cleverness. And yet Rumplestiltskin the spinner wasn't enough for Milah the peasant girl, so how can he hope to win over a princess?

The cane snags in a rut and Rumple stumbles. Bae catches him by the elbow and steadies him. "Just a hello," Bae murmurs, allowing him a moment to rest. "She's a woman who knows her own mind and speaks it, and what she wants is to talk to you."

Rumple nods, wipes the sweat from his brow and steps out again. As always, they stop at the well to wash up and drink, then they shake the dust from their clothes and approach the castle. Bae is back home again, bidding good afternoon to soldiers and servants, and Rumple can be proud that his boy fits in so well in two worlds. Wherever his adventures lead him, Bae will make a home for himself.

They stop at the back entrance, as always, but this time it's only Bae who goes in. Rumple positions himself directly under the balcony where he once saw a lady in gold. He taps his cane against his boot. Why did he choose to arrange the meeting this way? It would have made more sense to go into the kitchen, where he and Belle have each spent many comfortable afternoons. They could have seated themselves (is it proper for a man to pull out the chair for a princess? Or, because she's a royal, should he keep his distance?). They could have chatted over cups of tea with cooks and maids to chaperone them. What if it had been raining when he'd arrived? Would he have stood here drenched and expected the princess to do the same? What if—

"Hello, Rumple."

A warm, soft hand touches his, the one that holds the cane. Instead of coming out on her balcony to look down upon him (he'd planned it that way with the notion that if she didn't like what she saw, she could simply fade wordlessly back into her bedroom) she's come to him. But Belle knows her own mind and will speak it, and as he shifts a little to gaze upon the woman whose hand is still resting on his, it's perfectly okay with him if that's how it will be for the rest of their lives.

Her voice is quiet, her manner, gentle, but her bright eyes dance on the edge of mischief (just as he'd imagined they would), and her smile is dimpled and her long, dark hair falls clumsily into her face, just begging to be brushed back by a lover's hand.

"Hello, Belle." He reaches over with his left hand to squeeze hers, a little longer than strangers should touch.

"I've been waiting for this for such a long time," she confesses.

He withdraws his left hand, because a door slamming from somewhere inside the castle reminds him that dozens of people pass by this spot every hour and some of those people wouldn't approve of a strange man holding a woman's hand, or a peasant touching a royal, or—well, there's too much that people wouldn't approve of.

Her smile flickers as she withdraws her hand too, and clasps it with the other in front of the folds of her dress (a blue dress, like her eyes, well-tailored—his thread!—simple and functional, the dress of a teacher, not a future queen. He starts breathing again, allowing himself to pretend she's an ordinary woman. She does nothing to disillusion him.)

"So have I," he agrees.

"I feel as if I know you, as if we've been friends a long time." She talks a bit too fast.

"We have," he dares to say.

A scullery boy rushes past them with a yoke of water buckets, and this spurs Belle to action. She takes his left elbow and urges him to turn. "Come this way." She leads him away from the castle, toward a grove of apple trees, past the hum of bees and the inviting sweet scent of the fruit. He wonders if they will stop and sit beneath one of these sheltering trees, but she urges him on, deeper into the grove, to a storage shed. Amid the tools and the bushel baskets, there's a small wooden bench, and behind it, a crate filled with books. "I come here when I want to be alone," she informs him, dropping onto the bench, then she blushes and stares at her shoes, as if she's wondering if that was too personal a thing to say, if he would take it as an insinuation.

He sits down beside her, then realizes that was probably too forward and jumps up again. She laughs, causing him to laugh, and suddenly the air is clear between them and he can sit beside her and they can look at each other without doubt.

"I've missed you," he remarks.

It's a nonsensical thing to say, but she understands. "It feels that way, doesn't it? Like we've been apart—"

"But shouldn't have been."

Forward and improper it might be, but that's exactly the right thing to say; it's what he feels and what she feels, and he takes her hand freely now.

"I sometimes write my letters here, or read yours. I carry Athena out here too and she chases mice or apple blossoms while I write."

"I have a rocking chair by the hearth. Midnight sleeps at my feet or in my lap while I read your letters."

"In the spring and summer, I open the windows," she nods at the dusty glass behind them. "The scent of apples drifts in, and songs of birds, and sometimes I try to imagine that I'm in Ramsgate."

"Through my windows I can hear Luke's sheep bleating, and his dog growling at them to keep them in order, and Gretchen singing as she cooks."

"What does Morraine do?"

"She stands on the lawn and watches the stars come out."

"Thinking of Bae. I wish I could be there to see it all."

He tilts his head in the direction they came. "Sometimes I imagine you standing on your balcony in the evening, watching the clouds drift, counting the stars."

"And trying to understand the minds of ogres," she chuckles softly.

He squeezes her hand. "We did good, didn't we?"

"We accomplished something." She squeezes back. "Together. We make each other smarter, I think."

"How much more might we do," he hesitates a little before adding, "together?"

She rests her head on his shoulder, and his arm slides around her waist, and for an hour she's not a princess. She's his.


	15. Rumors and Truths

Too soon, he releases her waist and slowly rises. At her frown he explains, "We need to go in, for your reputation, and for mine." Her eyebrows shoot up. "What I mean is, I want to do this properly, in a way that reflects well upon all of us."

Belle ducks her head in a blush. "Are you saying you want to court me?"

Now it's his turn to blush. "If your father will allow it." He reaches out a hand to raise her to her feet. "Hiding from the world is tempting, but we haven't earned that right yet. I must show your father and your mother that I mean to respect the rules, so they will respect me."

She nods, smiling now, because he's revealed his intentions. "There will be time later for us to come back here." She links her arm in his. "Father and Mother will be in Petitions now, but we can sit in the back and when it's over, we'll tell them you're here."

He raises his chin determinedly. "And why." As they walk through the orchard, he asks, "What are Petitions?"

"It's when the subjects come to my father and ask his boon. It may be to settle a dispute or to grant hunting privileges on royal land—lately, it's often been not to draft their family members into the army. But that will end soon, thanks to your whistle."

"Thanks to your negotiations with the fairies. Stubborn little fireflies, I've heard."

She giggles. "They are. Father encourages me to sit in on the Hearings. He says to me, 'Belle, most people think the subjects serve the king. But the truth is, a kingdom survives only if the king serves the subjects.'"

"Your father is wise." He runs his tongue over his lips. "Belle, do you think he'll grant _me_ this boon?"

"And me. He will grant it to me, because he knows I wish it."

He tightens his grip on her arm. "After we speak to him and your mother, I'll ask to be permitted to see you tonight. Then I'll go into town and get a room at the inn and wait for the appointed time."

"No." She's firm about this. "You are my friend and one of my father's advisors; that makes you a guest of the crown any time you're in Avonlea. You will stay at the castle."

He is equally firm. "No, Belle, I won't risk rumors. We'll do this the right way, chaperone and all."

She sighs in frustration. "Rules! If a princess can't be allowed to break them once in a while, what's the good of being a princess?"

"Let me honor you this way," he urges, lacing his fingers through hers. "And your parents. And myself—if this—if this feeling between us grows and leads to—more—I want—" he stutters, then sighs. "Belle, there will be criticism aplenty against me, where I come from, what I have, or rather, don't have, but there will be stories. . . .You need to be prepared for them. You need to know them, so you can decide if I'm. . . the man you think I am."

They stop under a blossoming tree. She tends toward impetuousness and impatience, they both know that, but there's pain in his voice that reins her in. Silently she gives him the time he needs to gather his thoughts and select his words. "Belle, there's a rumor about me—your father is aware of it. He chose to ignore it in deciding to accept me as an advisor, but it may be different—it must be different—when it comes to accepting me as a suitor for his child. And you may feel different about me too."

"If this is about your leg—" Her tone is defiant.

"It's true. The rumor is true." He pauses for her to take his declaration in, but she seems no less determined to deny the rumor's outcome. "Many years ago, when Milah and I were less than a year wed, I was drafted into the army to fight in the first Ogre War. Naïve as I was, I was delighted; I thought this would be a chance to make a name for myself. I looked around me and saw that war veterans were highly admired by young and old alike, their businesses thrived and their families were thanked. And there was a small pension that guaranteed each veteran an income. I thought the draft notice was a blessing from heaven, and so I went. But even before I arrived at the training ground, I realized my folly. The men and women with whom I walked the road to the training camp, some of them spoke about the price that the veterans had paid to earn that admiration."

She nods slowly. "The price can be disproportionately high."

"They had many battle stories to tell. I listened until I couldn't bear to listen any more, and then I stuffed my ears, but still, the stories continued. By the time we arrived at the training camp, I was trembling. But I told myself those were just exaggerated horror stories—until, on the last night of our training, as we were preparing our weapons for our first battle, I saw the dead and the wounded being carried in on stretchers. Belle, there were more of them than there were of us. I was horror-struck."

"I would be too. Anyone would be."

"I was given an assignment to guard a 'secret weapon.' It turned out to be a child in a cage—a child whose eyes had been sewn shut. Again, I was shocked: how could my superiors treat a child this way? Then I spoke to her and learned she was magical, capable of seeing glimpses of the future."

"A Seer." Belle had read about this secret weapon. The Seer's capture had taken a year to orchestrate; it was hoped that this child's power would reveal the ogres' plans and bring a quick end to war. The endangerment of a child—though some claimed a magical being shouldn't be considered a child—was thought to be well worth the price, if it resulted in saving hundreds of soldiers' lives.

"She said that she Saw my wife and knew her to be pregnant. My mind refused to believe; the Seer was an enemy, so of course she would lie. But my heart so wanted it to be true that I listened. She told me that my son would grow up fatherless because of the morrow's battle. I couldn't risk that. I'd grown up fatherless myself; I'd sworn that wouldn't happen to my children. And Belle, I was scared for myself, scared to die, even if it meant I'd be remembered as a hero."

"I would have been scared too."

"But you would have fought." He lowers his head. "That's a difference between you and me, a difference that matters. You have the courage to do what's needed, even at risk to yourself. I don't. I'm selfish."

"You have a child to raise. You need to consider him in all that you do."

"I _am_ a coward, Belle. You have to understand that. If we're to be together, you have to find a way to tolerate that in me. You will have to forgive me, over and over."

"And you'll have to forgive much in me, too," she persists.

She is so young. They will have to move slowly in this relationship, if they are to continue as sweethearts as they reveal more and more about themselves to each other. Her stubbornness will get in the way, but she is smart and perceptive too; she will come to see he is flawed and scarred, just as all men are. He has no illusions as to her proximity to perfection, but he believes he can accept whatever annoying habits or undesirable traits she possesses. He learned a great deal about love and acceptance—though most of it was from raising Bae. He'd been a poor learner and even poorer listener with Milah. But he _had_ learned; he could be grateful to Milah for that; and he is certain his relationship with Belle would be much happier. If there was to be a relationship.

"After I spoke to the Seer, I was desperate for a way to circumvent that future. I looked around me and saw that the wounded were being sent home, their service done. Home to their proud wives. Home to the children who needed them. There was a sledgehammer. I picked it up." A catch in his throat prevents him from continuing, but if he had, he would only have stated the obvious.

She makes a small, sad sound as she stares down at his cane. Before she can express her sympathy, he prevents her. "It was the price for my release, and worth it. It turned out to be a heftier price than I had first thought, one that my son has had to pay too. People have long memories when it comes to cowards."

"Hypocrites," she snaps. "They need to clean up their own backyards."

"Whether it's right or not, the fact is, it _is_. It's been a long and slow struggle to regain some respect—"

"The soldiers respect you. Your whistle will save lives."

A bitter smile twitches at his lips. "Ironic, isn't it? The people who have the most reason to despise me have been among the first to forgive me. I have some friends now, but most of Ramsgate still looks down upon me, and if your father and mother permit me to court you, the talk about us will only revive the embers of those old rumors. You need to think about this, Belle. It's not just what the rumors will do to you—I know you're strong enough to withstand them. You have to think about your kingdom. If the people disrespect your suitor, they will disrespect you, and the throne will be vulnerable."

"I disagree. They'll respect you just as soon as their loved ones start marching home, freed from this war by your whistle."

"Perhaps. But you need to think about the other possibility, Belle. For your kingdom, for your children." His voice lowers as he dares utter the last phrase. "Promise me you'll think about it carefully."

It's his first request of her, so, despite her stubborn refusal to accept his pessimism, she agrees to it. After all, there is always value in thinking things through. She slips her hand back into his arm. "Let's go inside now. We'll do this properly."

"Thank you, Belle."

He's smiling broadly as they come in the servants' entrance to the kitchen. She knows the whole truth about him now, and for the moment, she is undeterred. It's a good start. He's proud of himself for having found the courage to be honest with her. Courage is not natural to him, but love has made it accessible to him. He loses a half-step as he realizes that: it _is_ love.

The cook Helena greets them both warmly as they come in through the kitchen. She offers them tea and fresh-baked rolls with apple butter; they sit down for a few minutes and chat with her as they refresh themselves. Her eyes dart back and forth between them, taking in all the information their body language provides, and she's so pleased with what she learns that she begs them to take slices of cake too. "Isn't that for the dinner tonight?" Belle wonders, then she explains to Rumple, "It's our monthly dinner with the gray men. We feed them while they complain about everything we're doing wrong."

"Well, yes, Your Highness, but I can bake another. This one turned out too nice for the likes of them," Helena leans forward to whisper conspiratorially.

Belle giggles. "Well, then, we must accept. But just a sliver. I need to be hungry at dinner, so I can focus on my plate and not the gray men."

Fortified, Rumple and Belle thank her and rise to leave. Helena's curiosity gets the better of her, and though it's pushy, she hints at the question she's dying to ask. "Ma'am, will Mr. Rumplestiltskin be staying? I can send a message to Ulrich to have a room readied."

Belle knows what she's really asking. "Perhaps. We must speak to my father first."

Helena claps her hands. "Oh, that's _fine_ , ma'am, just _fine_!"

They chuckle as they pass through the corridors. "You've won over the people who count here," Belle surmises. "The soldiers and the servants."

"May I be so fortunate with your parents," Rumple replies.

Belle takes them into the Petition Room through a side door, since a line of citizens is clogging the front entrance. She leads him to a bench near the back, and as they squeeze through the audience to seat themselves, there's a low murmur and several people stand as they recognize her. Their smiles become frowns of confusion as they notice the peasant trailing along behind the Princess. So it begins. The first of the rumors will be spread across town by sundown.

They've come in in the middle of a plea by a farmer to reclaim water rights that he swears were granted to his family generations ago. The new owner of the property upon which the river is located is also present and he insists on charging a fee for the farmer to bring his sheep to water. Rumple finds the discussion fascinating—from the judgement he will learn much about the kind of ruler Maurice is, for while the humane thing, and the thing most beneficial to the community, would be to force the owner to grant free access to the water, the owner is within his rights to charge a fee. And who can blame a man for simply taking advantage of what belongs to him? The discussion is fascinating, but, Rumple thinks, a repeat can easily be prevented, simply by drawing up a contract. If the King doesn't think of this himself, Rumple will dare to whisper his idea to Belle, who can then share it with her father in private, so as not to embarrass His Majesty with a publicly made suggestion.

The King speaks in quiet with one of his hangers-on, then makes his decision. "It is known to us that the grandfather of Farmer Wallis had an agreement with the previous owner of the property. However, being no relation to the previous owner, and having bought the property outright, Arnot is under no obligation to honor his predecessor's agreements. To do so would be the _honorable_ and neighborly thing to do, the sort of thing that I would feel obliged to recognize publicly, say, with a Good Citizen award and an invitation to the next Royal Hunt."

Arnot is a small, wizened man who it seems can barely chew his meat, hardly hardy enough to sit one of the King's tall hunters. It doesn't matter, though; the invitation alone would be enough to provide fodder for admiration for years to come. And for newcomers to town who may doubt Arnot's boast, there would be a Good Citizen proclamation to hang on his wall. Gray and bent as he is, Arnot is nevertheless sharp-witted, and he understands he's been backed into a corner. To refuse His Majesty's implied suggestion would be considered by some a sign of disloyalty to the crown—an insult, in fact, and one that a man would have trouble living down in a time of war. Arnot swallows hard, looking around at the audience, then clamps his mouth tight and nods.

"Very good. Citizens of Aramore, please recognize with me Good Citizen of the Month, the farmer Arnot. A proclamation will be drafted immediately." Maurice doesn't even have to nod at his lackey; the servant rushes off to do the King's implied bidding. Maurice leads the applause—polite and short-lived, for it's easy to see why Arnot has accepted this judgement.

There are many more disagreements for the King to settle, most of them, Rumple concludes, easily avoided in the future with the right paperwork. He knows the King has a cadre of legal scholars at his disposal, but apparently the common man has no access to legal advice. Rumple wonders if it would be inappropriate for him to make a suggestion to Belle that she and her parents consider the problem. He's sure she won't be insulted if he suggests it. They've worked so well together these years, feeding each other information, developing ideas together. Glancing out of the corner of his eye at her, he's so overwhelmed by the warm feeling flooding him that he squeezes her hand, but then quickly remembers who and where he is, and he releases her before someone catches him.

Not for the first time, he wishes she were a common woman.

The disputes over property, she listens to, and he can see her mind working on them, employing logic and education to come up with her own judgements. But he can feel her heart jump to the fore when a balding man, holding the hand of a toddler, approaches the throne, and he can feel the heat from her as her blood boils as the plaintiff lays out his case. He speaks hesitantly, staring at the floor, until the baby coughs, and then he seems to remember why he's come. "Your Majesty, this is my grandson. My girl, she's too ashamed to come. I'm ashamed too. But it should be him that's ashamed, for what he did to her, what he's doing to the boy!" He points at the kid, who is staring at the King and Queen in amazement.

"Who's the 'he' you're speaking of, citizen?" Maurice asks gently.

"The father. Goes by the name Odard, but his real name is Valamir. He done time in prison, that's why the name change. We found that out too late. My girl, she was young and foolish when he came to her with his fine clothes and fine words, and throwin' his money about. We didn't know then that he'd stole it. Anyway, he. . . they was bespoke; least, that's what he told her, and he gave her a ring. Come to find out, he stole that too. We was puttin' the wedding together." The man tossed his head pridefully. "Well, it's not that unusual, is it? They jumped the gun. They was to be married soon as we could afford it. We wanted to do it right, give her a nice wedding and a dowry. But he got a child on her and then he ran."

"Get him, Father," Rumple hears Belle hiss.

"Despicable," Her Majesty can be heard to mutter.

"Very despicable," His Majesty shares an angry look with Colette. "Such a man deserves a return to prison."

"That's what we figure too, the wife and me." The old man nods his head in satisfaction, then remembers to add, "Sire."

"He must be made to provide for the child," Maurice decides. "He can be given a job in prison and his income can be given to the child."

The old man snorts. "That's the only way we'll ever see a copper out of him."

"Where might we find him?"

"Last we hear, he's pickin' pockets in Humbart."

The King speaks a few words with a lackey, who nods and runs off. "A warrant for Odard, also known as Valamir, will be issued. He will be given a chance to defend himself." Maurice pauses to select his words carefully. "Citizen, it will be necessary that we hear your daughter's testimony, if we are to find Odard guilty."

"I can speak to her in private," Colette offers.

"The school," Belle whispers. "When the child is a few years older, I'll take him into my school. I'll find a job for his mother and she can work while he's in school."

Rumple sneaks one more hand-squeeze in.

As the last petition is heard, Belle squirms in her seat and moans under her breath. Rumple, too, is visibly angered by the story. Three shop owners and four customers approach the King together; wary, four soldiers of the Home Guard, who normally stand bored throughout these proceedings, set their hands on their swords and close ranks with the King and Queen. The petitioners come in righteous anger, but not against the crown; as one is quick to explain, their complaint is against a hack driver whose horse, already burdened with age, wheezed and hung her head in her traces, unable to haul the taxi up a steep hill. The driver attempted to push the mare onward, first with shouts and a whip, then he climbed down from his box and kicked the mare in the belly. She moved a few paces but gave up again. He'd then found a broken tree branch and beat her around the head. The customers had witnessed the commotion first and came flying out of the shops; shouting, they demanded the driver to end his tirade. The shopkeepers came next, two of them grabbing the driver by the arms and yanking the branch away. A third shopkeeper picked up the discarded whip and shook it in the driver's face; the others prevented him from striking. As they relate the details, Colette covers her mouth with a handkerchief.

Maurice's voice shudders as he confronts the hack driver. "Is this true, Wifrik?" The driver sputters and Maurice pushes, "Is this true? Speak now; this is your only opportunity before I throw your worthless ass in prison."

A counselor leans forward to whisper in Maurice's ear, and Maurice can be heard across the entire room to respond, "What? Are you sure?"

The counselor nods and steps back, his head hanging in misery.

Maurice recovers his poise and presses on. "Speak, Wifrik, you sorry excuse for a human being."

"Your Majesty has already decided my guilt," the driver whines. "What chance have I for a fair hearing?"

"How dare you speak like that to the King?" one of the shopkeepers spits.

"Perhaps you are right," Maurice admits. "I can see Her Majesty is equally upset, so I will leave this case to my legal counsel to adjudicate."

Maurice has three counselors, each with a different specialty in law, who stand by to advise him on Petition Days. They now rise from the table at which they usually await Maurice's needs and they flank the throne. The eldest among them nods at Wifrik. "State your case, driver."

"It won't do for me to argue that these 'good people' are lying," he sneers. "There's seven of them and one of me. Nor will it do for me to argue it was mistaken identity. They already said the incident in question happened in broad daylight on a public street."

"Public street," Belle murmurs. Rumple watches her eyes shift as she chases after an idea. "Seven. Shoppers and shop owners."

"But what _will_ do is for me to remind you, Your Majesties, and you learned men, that that mare was my property."

"Was?" Belle gasps.

"I owned her free and clear. Paid cash for her, years back, and I got the bill of sale right here." The driver produces a crumpled paper from his coat and waves it about. He doesn't dare approach the throne, so the youngest of the counselors approaches him. The three legal experts bend their heads over the paper. "I can prove it too, if I have to. I can haul him in here, the guy I bought the horse from."

The chief counsel shows the paper to Maurice. "We accept this as a legitimate bill of sale, sire." Maurice groans and pushes the paper back at the chief, who returns it to Wifrik, who pockets it with a smug grin.

"If you're really scholars of the law," Wifrik continues, "you know a man has the right to dispose of his property any way he wants. I owned that horse; it's up to me what I do with her. They've"—he points at his accusers—"got no say in the matter. My property, my rights."

"It is true, sire," the chief counselor admits, "a man may dispose of his property as he sees fit, as long as he doesn't damage someone else's property in the process."

Belle hides her head in her hands. Rumple dares to rub her back, just once, then whisper in her ear, "What were you saying about 'public street'?"

Her head snaps up. "Excuse me, Rumple." She steps on his foot as she climbs over him and squeezes down the row. Once she's free of the crowd, she runs up the aisle, causing everyone on the dais to raise their heads. The guardsmen clutch, then release, their swords as they recognize her. "Your Majesties! Sir Waldef! May I speak? May I question these witnesses?"

"You are welcome, daughter," Maurice waves his hand at the shopkeepers, who bow slightly in homage to the Princess.

"Citizens." Belle spins to address the seven. "You saw this man beat a horse nearly to death. Where? Where did the beating occur?"

"In the street outside our shops, Your Highness," one answers.

"So say you all?"

Seven heads nod.

"At what time of day?"

"About two o'clock, Your Majesty."

"And was the street busy?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am. The sidewalks was crowded and there was walkers and some wagons in the street. It was a fair day, good for business."

"Until he came along," another witness complains. "Business dropped off right fast after that."

"Nobody could stomach what he done," a third adds. "In fact, some of my diners got up and left, their lunches untouched and unpaid for."

Belle's eyes glow as she points a finger at the restauranteur. "Would you say they were disturbed by this beating?"

"Course they were. Me too. Sick to my stomach."

"It's stupid too," someone says. "Stupidest business practice I ever saw, to beat the animal that makes your living for you."

"So you were disturbed too?" Belle asks him and he nods vigorously. She points at each in turn. "And you, you were disturbed?" She's consistent with her phrasing and Rumple catches on. He's proud of her; she has not allowed emotion to cloud her reasoning, and that has just won the case for her. "You were _disturbed_?" When the last has admitted to disturbance, she spins on the legal counsel. "Sir Waldef, Sir Demeas, Sir Leufroy, these citizens, every one, were disturbed by the act that took place on their public street. The beating caused a _public disturbance_ , which is illegal and punishable by law."

"It also disrupted traffic," one of the witnesses volunteers. "I saw it. He was blockin' the street a good ten minutes. The wagons couldn't get around him."

"There. I leave it to you." Belle folds her arms.

"Very good, daughter, very good," Maurice approves.

The three legal scholars huddle, but it only takes a moment before they announce, "Wifrik, we find you guilty of creating a public disturbance and interfering with the progress of traffic. We revoke your carriage license permanently; you will be permanently forbidden from purchasing another animal, whether it's a horse or snail. Furthermore, we sentence you to three months of labor—mucking out the Avonlea Regiment's barns."

Wifrik stares open-mouthed at the King, who waves a hand. "Get him properly outfitted for his new job." Two of the guards haul the driver away.

"Well done, Your Highness," Rumple whispers as Belle returns to his side.

Now it's her turn to squeeze his hand. "Your little nudge helped me piece it together. We're a good team, Rumple."

"That we are."


	16. Books and Busybodies

Belle leads him up three flights of stairs. She walks slowly, conscious of the struggle he's having with the steep steps, but she makes no comment; as beads of sweat break out on his forehead, she chatters on, pretending not to notice, but she slips her arm through his and shifts her weight slightly, taking some of his weight onto her. He doesn't need the scowls of the servants that pass by to inform him it's inappropriate to be touching a royal, but he worries that pulling away from her would only offend her, and that really would be a misstep.

They make a left turn into a comfortably appointed sitting room and she invites him to sit on a thickly padded chair as she flags down a maid to ask that the Chamberlain be sent to her. "And a big pot of tea, with four cups. And a small plate of Helena's chocolate cookies."

Rumple overhears the instruction and puzzles: how does Belle know that chocolate cookies are his favorite? Chocolate is so difficult to acquire in Ramsgate that presented in any form, it's a rare treat, and he favors it above all other delicacies. He may have mentioned it in passing in one of his letters to her, and she must have committed it to memory, for he recalls, somehow, learning somewhere along the way that she doesn't care for chocolate. Embarrassed, he folds his hands in his lap and stares at them: the future ruler of his nation remembers his favorite treat!

Or, another way to look at it: the woman he adores wants to make him happy. The tips of his elf-pointed ears turn red and he fights back a grin.

Belle returns from the hallway and seats herself on a couch across from his chair. She chatters on about Helena's cooking and the wonderful aromas she detected from the kitchen this afternoon; they will have fresh-baked bread glazed with butter, cooked carrots, parsnips, game fowl that Maurice and his entourage hunted down yesterday morning, and for dessert, apples from the orchard and imported cheeses. His stomach growls under the description and the red spreads from his ears into his cheeks. She just laughs, apparently delighted that her description is so effective.

That's something they admired about each other's correspondence, early on: each takes delight in the other's writing. Hers bubbles and pops with colorful imagery and alliteration; his reveals a deep understanding of human nature, the origin of which, he will someday tell her, is a lifetime of careful, fearful study of everyone he's ever met. Like a rabbit in the wild, he's attuned to every potential foe.

As she chatters, she slides forward on the couch to shorten the distance to him, and he finds himself doing the same, inappropriate though it may be. The sky blue of her eyes draws him forward. His free hand twitches, yearning to reach for one of her hands. He throws cold water on his warming urges, innocent thoug they are; yes, she's a woman and would welcome his touch, but she's a royal and dozens of people are rushing about in the hallway just three yards from the parlor's open doors. Do this the right way, they would; give Queen Colette no cause to revoke his standing invitation and King Maurice no cause to sic the dogs upon him.

Just as Belle is in mid-story, relating a tale of how Helena's cooking had won a marriage proposal from a visiting sultan, there appears in the doorway a tall, balding man with bright eyes that notice everything. "You called, Your Highness?"

"Oh yes, Aloys. Please ask my father and my mother to join us here, then have a bedchambers prepared for our guest, on the ground floor. The one that faces the training field." She remembered even that!

As he bows his ascent, Aloys examines Rumplestiltskin from the corner of his eye. He's good, Rumple has to hand that to him; subtle, unflappable, but cognizant of Belle's welfare. Rumple supposes they really should have a chaperone seated here with them, even though the doors are open. Belle concludes her story about Helena and launches into one about Ulrich the butler when a streak of black fur bounds into the room and tosses itself onto Rumple's lap. He's not startled—after years of sharing a home with a cat, he's used to these surprises; he adjusts the cat more comfortably onto his knees and peers into her amber eyes, recognizing the animal's lineage.

"Athena!" Belle reaches out to scratch the cat's ears. "Let me know if she bothers you. She can be kind of pushy when she wants attention. But Mother and I love her dearly, and I thank you for giving her to me."

"It was my pleasure."

And that launches a flurry of tales of two cats, and soon the Princess and her guest are laughing so hard it can be heard up and down the entire third floor. They don't even hear the King as he enters, sliding his military coat onto his arms; the Queen is right behind him, flicking spots of dust from the back of the jacket and clucking. "Really, Maurice, you should button your coat before you come into a room."

"Sorry, my dear." The King responds automatically, not really sorry at all. "You must forgive this old war horse for his crude manners." The latter is said with a glance in Rumple's direction. Rumple knows the King never fought in a war, but as much time as he spends elbow to elbow with the generals, bent over maps and reports, he's earned the right to identify himself as military.

Rumple stands and bows, to Colette first, then to Maurice. Then he gnaws on his lip: should he have done that the other way around? But the three royals ignore the blunder and Maurice invites him to be seated again as a servant slips into the room with a loaded tea tray. "Just in time," Colette says as the servant pours. The King's cup is prepared first—Rumple makes a mental note of that—then the Queen's, then Belle's, and finally Rumple's. In a voice so soft she doesn't intrude upon the conversion, the servant learns how Rumple likes his tea (with two lumps of sugar, another rare treat). She distributes napkins and offers the cookies around before vanishing into the hallway. Rumple suspects she's nearby, ready to be summoned again.

"I'm afraid I can't stay," Maurice says as he stuffs a cookie into his mouth. "A rider's just come in from one of the battlefields with a report."

Belle looks disappointed and excited at the same time. "Is it good news, Father?"

"Anytime there are losses, it's never good, but the Aureum Regiment chased the ogres out of Minoc Valley, using the Spinner's Whistle." The King nods gratefully at his guest. He finishes buttoning his coat and gulps his tea.

"Don't forget, dinner at seven. The Council of Nobles," Colette says gently, straightening her husband's collar.

"Those busybodies." The complaint isn't for Rumple's ears, but Rumple hears it anyway. Maurice gives his wife a peck on the cheek, then says a hasty goodbye to Belle and her guest.

After he's gone, Colette seats herself beside Belle and refills the tea cups. "I'm happy to meet you, Rumplestiltskin. What brings you to Avonlea?"

Rumple's knees shake; he clamps them together. "Well, I. . . wanted to. . . discuss something. . . with His Majesty." His voice grows fainter with each word. It's hard enough to speak to his beloved's father, but somehow, even harder to address her mother. Colette just seems so much more regal (and, he knows from Belle's letters, a bit judgmental).

"Oh." Colette smiles into her cup. "We have a dinner tonight, rather formal, but a monthly thing; it's necessary for His Majesty to keep the nobles informed."

"And they, him," Belle mutters.

"Now, darling."

"Mother, admit it: you don't like them any more than Father and I do."

"A necessary evil. We must attend them, to keep their loyalty." Colette's eyes sparkle with mischief. "We need their conscripts and their taxes."

"No more than they need us to protect them—from each other as well as the ogres." Belle grumbles.

"Yes, but don't tell _them_ that. A little attention and a lot of flattery go a long way." Colette studies Rumple through her long eyelashes as she sips her tea. "Rumplestiltskin, perhaps you'd care to join us."

Belle's body stiffens. "Mother, I don't—is that a good idea?"

"There have been questions about the Whistle; some of the Council are curious to meet its inventor. It might do us all some good," Colette replies mildly. "Of course, you have had a long journey today, so I understand completely if you would prefer not to join us, but I think His Majesty and Belle would enjoy having a fresh face there. You're a guest, so we wish to do whatever will make your stay comfortable."

"Mother, can't I be excused this once?" Belle moans. "They don't listen to me anyway."

"All the more reason for you to be there, Belle. You must learn how to get them to listen. Besides, it's our duty."

Belle sighs heartily, then looks to Rumple for encouragement. His presence at the dinner will give her the patience to get through this interminable dinner.

He is thinking about the time he failed to do his duty; after Bae's birth, he'd sworn he'd never fail to live up to his responsibilities again, although, when it came to Milah, he had. He raises his chin, vowing to himself he'll never ignore Belle's needs the way he did Milah's—if, that is, Maurice permits the courting. "It's right that we do all that's required of us."

Belle sighs and Colette's smile relaxes. "That's so."

Already the coward in him wants to retreat. "Your Majesty, I'm ignorant in the ways of the court, so if I offend, please forgive me; it's not my intention. But if it wouldn't be a breach of etiquette for a commoner to attend, I'd like to be there. . . to support Belle." He swallows hard on the last phrase.

"That's how it is, is it?" Colette's smile is mysterious, both playful and testing at the same time.

Belle returns to the conversation. "Yes, Mother, it's what we want to talk to you and Father about."

"Thank you, Rumplestiltskin; we will be glad to have you with us. Unfortunately, amongst our dinner guests, rules of propriety are very old fashioned, so it will not be possible for the two of you to be seated together. Nor—" she frowns at Belle—"to leave the dinner together, supposing for example you each should discover a sudden need to step out for fresh air."

Belle winces; she's been caught out.

Rumple replies, "Thank you, ma'am, for the invitation and the instruction. The last thing I would want is for blame to come to Her Highness because of me."

"A fine sentiment, Rumplestiltskin. I dare say your native manners exceed the manners many of our noblemen have grown up with. Belle, dear, perhaps we should fill Rumplestiltskin in on what he should expect from our other dinner guests. They can be rather—"

"Gray," Belle finishes.

"I'm afraid we won't have much time to chat with you during the dinner, Rumplestiltskin, and we'll have to put you at the foot of the table. I'm sorry about that; the nobles are very particular about symbolic gestures concerning status, and His Majesty and I have learned to pick our battles with them. But we would be glad to have you join us, and after the dinner, we can return here to recover. The King will be free then, to talk with you."

Rumple glances at Belle, who's biting her lip. Belle's not happy about the invitation, but Rumple worries how much damage he'd do to his relationship with her parents if he declines. Nor does he have the excuse of not having proper attire; he's wearing his best clothes and has packed his second-best in his sack. "I, ah—thank you, Your Majesty. I am honored."

Belle smiles at him encouragingly. He can imagine what she's thinking: it's too soon in their relationship for such a big challenge, but she's proud of him for accepting it and she believes he will acquit himself well. _Let's get this over with_ , her smile says. _Then there will time for us._

Rumple suspects, though, that when the women are alone, there will be some forceful words expressed.

Colette stands and smooths her skirts. "Well then, dinner is at seven. We have time to change and rest before then. Ulrich will send Aalot to assist your in your ablutions. Til this evening, Rumplestiltskin." Over her shoulder she adds, "Don't be too long, Belle."

"Yes, Mother." Belle sets her tea cup down and sighs as soon as Her Majesty has gone. "I'm sorry, Rumple. I didn't guess she'd do that. You don't really have to attend the dinner if you don't want to. I wouldn't put you through that."

He shrugs. "I would rather have your mother on my side, even if it means suffering the gray men for one night."

She dares to add, "I suppose you'll have to meet them sooner or later, if. . . ."

He nods. "If my conversation with your father goes well."

"I think it will. Mother's the one we need to win over." Belle dimples. "Father's already won over." She stands and he follows suit. "We have the rest of the afternoon. Would you like a tour of the castle?" Then she glances hastily at his cane. "I'd love to show you the school; it's on the second floor."

"I'd like to see it. From your letters, it sounds like a most forward-thinking enterprise."

She grins broadly as she takes his arm. "I'd like to think so, even if it's immodest of me to say so. I had a lot of help designing it, including input from your son." Which launches a whole new conversation as they stroll into the hallway. "It was his idea to create little workstations for the children, one for reading, one for writing, one for languages—" He already knows all this, from her letters and from Bae, but nothing she says can bore him, so he listens intently and asks a great many questions as she provides the tour. Along the walls of the hallways are portraits, but only a few, as Belle identifies them, are of her family; most are of historical figures from Aramore's past. "Father and I agree, it's important that children grow up with an understanding of their nation's history." She frowns a little as they pause in front of a portrait of a black-bearded royal. "Even the less admirable parts. Him, for instance. Four kings back, he led a short but bloody rule. I'm ashamed to say that his violence doubled the size of the kingdom." She sighs regretfully. "But then, my own grandfather took the throne in a coup, too. I hope we do things in a more civilized manner now."

"I once read of a queen from a faraway land called Monmouth; her birth name was Gidrun but she is remembered as Ailia, which means 'the Enlightened.' She's known as the Queen of the Enlightened, because she brought literacy to her people." He casts a shy glance at her. "I think you'll be Aramore's Ailia."

Her voice cracks. "Oh thank you, Rumple. Your praise means more to me than any nobleman's flattery, because I know you mean it."

He blurts, "Belle, I—" Then he stops himself; as full as his heart is, he must let his head rule him. He can't speak his heart until he's gained Maurice and Colette's ascent.

"I know," she says softly, squeezing his hand. "I do too."

"Is it too soon? Too fast?" he frets.

She shakes her head. "I think we know each other better than most. Your letters showed me who you are."

He nods. "That's how I feel too. As if years of long conversation and walks in the woods have passed between us." His feet shift of their own accord, bringing him closer than he should; his head bends toward her and she lifts on tiptoes, but fortunately, a servant scurrying past interrupts and he draws away from her.

He clears his throat. "Will you show me your library?"

It's the one request capable of making her forget her need to kiss him. "The library! Yes, of course. In the west wing. If you aren't too tired?"

He shakes his head.

"This way, then." She directs him with a gentle hand on his arm. "And if you see anything you'd like to read, feel free to take it. In fact, we can crate up some books for you and send them, and you, back to Ramsgate by carriage."

"That's very generous." He's genuinely touched but not surprised.

"In all honesty, it's just looking out for our interests," she confesses. "The kingdom has grown so fast since Father took the throne, he and his legal advisers can't keep up. We know there's a need for legal counsel in every village. Father knows you've been serving in that capacity for Ramsgate; in fact, he's been thinking of inviting you and several others from around the kingdom to come here and study under the legal scholars, after the war is over."

He opens and closes his mouth. "That is—so much more than my little contract writing merits. I don't know what to say."

"We need you to be part of the Enlightenment." She steers him into a room larger than the Great Hall, with a ceiling so high above he can't see the top, and ladders reaching up to the tall shelves, each of which is filled with books or scrolls. "The library," she says proudly, watching him as his wide eyes travel slowly across the west wing. It's far more than he can take in. "Ohhh."

"The first thing I'd like to show you, though, isn't a book; it's this." She leads him to the northwest corner of the room, where a Saxony wheel and a basket of roving await. "A birthday gift from my parents. I requested it. I want to experience that dreamlike state you've written about, when you spin, but so far," she shrugs, "all I get is dizzy with frustration."

"How many lessons have you had?"

"Two."

He chuckles. "Patience, Belle. It's complicated, but the skill will come eventually."

"And now my pride and joy." She waves a hand at the shelves. "Books in every written language. The Bloody King actually started this; with each land he conquered, he looted their castles for books as well as gold. He liked to bring visiting kings here; he said it kept them in line to see how well read and smart he was. Truth was, he couldn't read or even write his name. His Chamberlain did all his paperwork. And then my grandfather continued the tradition of raiding conquered libraries, and my parents have bought and bartered for books, with an eye towards building schools in every town. When visitors want to impress us, they bring us books." She pursed her lips. "But as much as I love every book I've been given, the best gift I've ever received was a kitten. She's completely disinterested in my status. She loves me just as I am, and she comforts me when I'm lonely."

"I'm glad," he says softly.

It's her turn to clear her throat to chase away the temptation for inappropriate touch. She pulls on his hand, drawing him towards the westernmost wall. "Any citizen is welcome to come here, any time, and borrow books. Though, since the war started, we do post guards here while the borrowers browse. We have discovered a few spies among the citizenry—not spies for the ogres, of course, since we can't even communicate with them, but from those warlords and kings who would take advantage of our distraction to steal our kingdom out from under us. There have even been two assassination attempts from people posing as library borrowers." She sneers the last; he knows she considers this abuse of books an act of treason in itself.

"Your father is a good man and a good king," he assures her. "He has more loyalty among his subjects than any other living king."

She nods. "I hope to live up to his example." She runs her fingertips along a row of leather-bound books. "Father recommended we send some of these books back to Ramsgate with you. Modern practical law." She touches the row above those books. "And these are modern legal theory." She walks along the rows, pointing out their contents. "Historical law. General history. Military history. Military theory. Philosophy. Religion. Magic. Medicine. Botany. Animal husbandry." And so on; he loses track of all the subjects. Then they come to her favorites: fiction and poetry. And back around again to the law books, which he peruses. "If it's all right?"

She nods. "Take any you like."

He helps himself to a book about land deeds; another about inheritance law; and a third about contracts. Then his hand hovers over one before finally taking it down to add to his collection.

She peeks past his shoulder at the title: _Laws of Marriage_. Her breath catches. "Well. I'll leave you to it. I need to dress for dinner." But she takes a second peek at the page he's opened to: "Laws of Divorcement." Her voice shakes a little; she knows about Milah. "When you're ready to go to your room, just pull this cord. It'll ring the servant's bell for Aalot."

Rumple snorts. "I'm sure he'll have a hot bath and a change of clothes waiting for me."

She giggles. "He does fancy himself a fashion expert." She starts to leave, but abruptly pauses and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. She rushes away before he can respond—except to drop his cane.

He's sitting in a wingback chair beside a tall window—he imagines Belle sitting here, a stack of books at her feet, the cat on her lap—when Aalot comes looking for him. He doesn't hear the soft-footed servant (Aalot learned long ago that he can acquire some useful information by tiptoeing up on people) approach, so absorbed is he in the _Laws of Marriage_. He suddenly hoots and Aalot squeals and jumps backward, startling Rumple, who drops the book.

"Sorry, sir," Aalot recovers first and reaches for the book, but alas, it fell closed, so he can't see what Rumple was reading. He does, however, take note of the title on the cover. "It's time to dress for dinner."

Rumple gathers his borrowed books in one arm and his cane in his other. "Lead on."

"Allow me to carry those for you, sir." When Rumple hesitates, his pride bruised, the servant explains, "His Majesty instructed me to crate any books you wish to take with you when you go. There will be a carriage at your disposal when you're ready to return to Ramsgate."

With a curt nod, Rumple surrenders his prizes. "I suppose you have a bath ready?"

"Of course, sir. But I'll wait in the hall as you bathe. You can call for me if you need assistance getting in or out of the tub."

Rumple grunts and clutches his cane tightly. "I won't." Then he reminds himself this man works for His Majesty and therefore deserves courtesy. "Thank you just the same." As they make their way downstairs, he surreptitiously rubs his leg. All this climbing. . . a hot bath will be welcome. And olive oil soap, imported. It's almost worth putting up with Aalot for.


	17. Gray Men

He alternates between wishing this hour would drag slowly, delaying dinner, and wishing the entire night would speed past. But since he has no magic—and doesn't know anyone who has such powers—he has to let time rule him. At least, he has one happy secret to clutch to his chest tonight: by law, his marriage to Milah is over, has been for three years, on the grounds of desertion. In fact, if at any time over the past ten years Milah spoke of any other man as "husband," her legal ties to Rumplestiltskin were immediately dissolved.

He's free, legally and morally, to pursue other affections. So, all the more determined to charm Colette and Maurice, he shaves, bathes, washes his hair, dresses carefully, brushes his teeth and evaluates himself in the full-length mirror. He doesn't trust mirrors—never has spent enough time around them to be comfortable with them—but this one approves of his appearance, apparently, so with a last brush stroke through his hair, he sits down on the bed to read and wait for Aalot's knock.

It comes too soon. At five minutes before 7, the footman leads him downstairs to the Great Hall, then through a side entrance. He's the first dinner guest to arrive, as protocol prescribes, since he's the lowest ranking. No food is on the table yet, not even a pitcher of water; his throat is dry and he wonders if it would be bad manners to ask Aalot to fetch him a glass of something. He's sure Aalot wouldn't hesitate to tell him if it were. Well, he's been thirsty before, and hungry, to a far greater extent than tonight, so he distracts himself by planning safe topics of conversation. Based on where he's been seated, he can assume that those who will be seated next to him—and those he will have to spend the evening making friends with—will be the lowest ranking nobles: barons. He digs into his memory—all children in Misthaven grow up learning the ranks and their proper form of address—but he isn't sure of the rules beyond that. Should he stand as each nobleman arrives (and wouldn't that be monotonous, considering, from the chair count, there will be nineteen other diners)? Should he wait to speak until he's spoken to? He knows no one is supposed to leave until the King and Queen do, but do the nobles leave in order of rank, since they're coming in that way?

And isn't this whole protocol business just a waste of time, especially in a time of war? Rumple feels pretty certain the King and the Princess would see it that way. Perhaps they take small comfort in the fact that the Council of Noblemen dinner takes place just once a month.

It just hits him: someday he may be expected to sit up front, at the dais. Someday the people now filtering in, rank by rank (and all of them men; he wonders what Belle thinks of that) may be expected to rise to their feet when he enters. It makes his stomach churn.

But he's getting ahead of himself, too far ahead. He grabs the water goblet closest to his plate, in hope of getting a drink of water—nothing's been poured yet, so he has to suffer his thirst. Too far ahead. When Belle gets to know him better, she'll decide this courtship idea needs to be scuttled.

As the next guests are brought in, he pretends to examine his napkin so that he won't have to figure out whether to stand up for them. Peyton the footman seats the barons to Rumple's right. Rumple's nose twitches under the assault of heavy cologne wafting from the newcomers. In turn, they look at him strangely and take guesses as to his purpose at the dinner, since of course he's obviously not one of them, but when Peyton returns with another noble in tow, the two barons switch their interest to that worthy. The barons don't stand for any of the incoming guests, so Rumple figures he's safe, but he keeps fiddling with his napkin until the last noble is seated so as not to be obliged to speak to anyone. At last—it feels like an hour has passed since Aalot, who's long since disappeared, brought him in—Ulrich appears at the foot of the dais, a footman blows a trumpet, and the butler booms across the Great Hall: "Announcing Her Highness, Princess Belle; Her Majesty, Queen Colette; and His Majesty, King Maurice." Dressed to their teeth in finery (though with his practiced eye for fabrics, Rumple can see that the garments' colors have faded and the elbows have worn thin. The gossipy barons beside Rumple whisper criticisms of the "peasant king" and his "farm girl bride," but the fact that the royals wear rather old clothes—though still, the cost of Maurice's stockings alone would feed a family of six for two months—impresses Rumple. He knows this is no act of disrespect for their guests but rather a show of support for the troops, a cost-cutting measure.

Chairs scrape as the noblemen rise, then scrape again as, following the royals' seating, the nobles reseat themselves. Sneaking glances at Belle, who's sneaking glances and smiles at him, Rumple can guess what she's thinking now: what a waste of time all this protocol business is, and what little it has to do with true courtesy. It will take years, but she will change things, his Belle will, bring efficiency and genuineness to her court. Rumple examines the faces around the table, picking out those who will likely support change; there's only a handful.

His Belle. He grunts softly to himself. Oh, he has it bad. He knows now why they call it "lovesick."

The meal is served. Conversation resumes, for all except Rumple; that's his preference as much as the barons'. Four courses, with plenty of wine in between; he pities the footmen and the cooks, for now that he knows several of them pretty well, he knows how hard they work. But that's okay, because Belle knows, too, and shows her appreciation, even now, in front of all these nose-to-the-sky types. Rumple tastes the care that went into each dish he's served; he plans to ask Helene for some of her recipes, not that he can afford the ingredients, but he enjoys experimenting with his cooking.

He wonders if the husband of a princess (would that make him a prince? A duke?) would be allowed to cook.

Oh, he's got it bad, all right.

When the last course—cheeses, nuts and sliced fruit—is brought in, Maurice nods once at Ulrich, who nods once at the trumpeter, who trumpets a few brief notes. The hall falls silent except for the clicks of boot heels as the footmen walk around the massive table, pouring more wine. Rumple feels flushed; he's going to have a headache tomorrow, if not a stomach ache from all this food. He hadn't meant to eat so much—watching Maurice from the corner of his eye, Rumple has learned that even the burly king practices restraint at these formal dinners, accepting only small samples of everything. Maurice scrubs his mouth with his napkin (the barons make some snide remarks about the King's rough manners), rises, welcomes the nobles, then launches into a report from the various battlefields, with lots of praise for the enchanted bows and the Spinner's Whistles. As he listens attentively, Rumple speculates on how well Belle's sweet voice will carry across the Great Hall, when she is one to make these reports; he will have to see if he can develop some sort of amplifier she can speak through.

Then there are state-of-the-provinces reports from various nobles-crops and livestock, weather, taxes collected, number of new conscripts sent to the army, all very mundane, Rumple thinks. When Belle is monarch, she'll want to hear the numbers pertaining to education—he smiles, imagining her asking each noble, "How many new books were added to your province's libraries this month?"

Rumple is lost in his daydream when the temperature of the room seems to change, the last of the reports having been given, and one of the big mucky-mucks stands, taking his time doing so (to draw attention to himself, no doubt). "Your Majesty, this being the time for discussion, I beg to raise a question."

Maurice dips his head. "Ask."

The nobleman wheels to face the south end of the table and points a finger dramatically. "This is the Council of Nobles, is it not? So why is this peasant dining among us?"

Someone chortles. "Instead of in the sty, where he belongs."

Rumple now recognizes the first speaker: Dalibor, Duke of Yarrin—and father of Sir Gaston. The second thing Rumple realizes is that the peasant the Duke is referring to is him.

He freezes, except for his eyes, which slide to Peyton. Will the footman evict him? Rumple doesn't dare swallow or even breathe. He wants to look to Belle for help, but he forces himself not to, lest he embarrass her.

"Indeed," sniffs one of the gossipy barons, who shakes out a handkerchief and presses it to his nose. Rumple recognizes a comment upon his hygiene. He wishes he could crawl under the table that his eyes are drilling a hole through.

"I am certain His Majesty had no knowledge of this pig groomer's presence," another duke comments, sounding bored. "It is the help that is to blame for this despicable intrusion." He throws the latter at Ulrich, who, for a slight moment, permits his mask of indifference to crack.

"I am surprised, Your Grace," a viscount challenges the second duke, "that this intrusion fails to ruffle you, and I am even more surprised, Your Majesty, that this creature, now discovered, is allowed to remain. Sensitive information pertaining to the war has been discussed here. How do we not know he is a spy?"

Heads nod, but Maurice bellows, "Enough!" And Dalibor snorts, "As always, you leap to panic, Ermo. The intruder, as His Majesty will no doubt tell us, is Rumplestiltskin of Ramsgate. A peasant, but no spy."

"He is more than that!" Her knuckles white, Belle grips the edge of the table as she rises; her mother pulls her back down and shushes her, but her father jumps into the fray, sparing Belle further embarrassment. "Gentlemen." His voice shudders with barely controlled anger. "It seems I have been remiss. I beg pardon for having failed to introduce him earlier. A request has come from some of you to meet the man whose invention is turning the course of the war, and so, when I learned he happened to be in Avonlea, I asked him to join us. It was my intention that, at the conclusion of our routine business, I would introduce him and give you the opportunity to thank him personally for his work—just as my generals have. Knowing how eager you all would be to join me in extending our gratitude, I thought to end this meeting on a happy note. You, Hob," Maurice stares down the bored duke, "in particular, I thought, would welcome this opportunity, considering your son came home from battle last week, unscathed, thanks to the Spinner's Whistle."

Hob is still not impressed. "In truth, sire, it's the archers to whom my thanks are owed, as my son tells it. Not this creature."

Rumple overhears one viscount whisper to another, "He doesn't even know which goblet is meant for him. He drank out of mine."

"I know Maurice likes to pretend he's a man of the people," the second viscount whispers back, "but this is ridiculous."

"If we are to suddenly become 'democratic,' this one in particular," Dalibor continues, jutting his chin toward Rumple, "should be the last to be invited to dine with us. You do know, don't you," he surveys his fellow noblemen, "who this Rumplestiltskin is?"

"Apart from the fact that he beat the hell out of your son with his cane," sniggers someone.

Dalibor ignores the remark. "You may style him as some sort of inventor, sire, but I'm sure if you knew the truth of him, you'd change your tone. During the previous Ogre War, he was conscripted, along with others from his village—"

"And he wormed his way out of it?" someone guesses. "He looks kind of wormy to me."

"Far worse, I dare say. He went. His Duke's tax gold was spent to train him and feed him and clothe him, and he took the bounty he was given, but on the night before his battalion was to be sent into battle, he found a way to escape—the lowest of ways. He injured himself so that he wouldn't have to fight, and he continued to live on his countrymen's hard-earned taxes, receiving medical care and housing and board until he could walk sufficiently to be released from service and brought home—where he continued, he and his whelp, to be a drain upon the kingdom. Lazy as well as cowardly, he took advantage of the good natures of his neighbors, taking alms. And now, here he is, irony upon irony, calling himself a savior of soldiers and dining at His Majesty's table."

"The nerve," a baron exclaims.

"I must concur with His Grace, sire," another noble pops up. "There is a time and a place for the uneducated and unwashed to be permitted at court, and this is hardly either."

"They had their time yesterday at the Petitions," someone adds.

"Your Majesty, we don't mean to make a fuss, but it is our responsibility to advise you in protecting the traditions and dignity of your court," Dalibor says smoothly. "It's only for that reason that I bought the matter up. Otherwise I would not have violated the spirit of goodwill and good humor at this assemblage. But now, may I recommend that the cow—that the Spinner be removed as quickly and quietly as possible so that peace may resume?" The tone with which he makes his request makes him sound much put upon.

Maurice's ears are red. He's still standing and his right hand is shaking, as if it's itching to form a fist or grab a sword. Rumple's entire face burns and his eyes sting; he would gladly have dined with the swineherd, rather than this crowd, if not for Belle's request. In his selfish wish to please her, he's embarrassed her and angered her father and made a fool of himself. His eyes dart to the nearest exit; his feet itch to follow, but that would only draw more attention.

"Gentlemen, you make me si—"

The Queen stills her husband with a soft hand to his arm—then, to the amazement of all, for few of these nobles have even heard her voice; she has been the example of womanly propriety, almost making the nobles forget her common background—she is the one to rise. Her face is serene as she scans the crowd, making direct eye contact with each of the twenty nobles. Her hands are folded at her waist. Her voice so gentle it cuts through the complaints, she addresses them: "Gentlemen, it is I who is at fault. I invited this man to dinner, and against his better judgment, he acquiesced to my wishes. _I_ wanted him here, and still do, and here and now let it be known that anytime he comes to Avonlea, he is a guest of the crown. And gentlemen, I know that as protectors of the traditions and dignity of this court, you will honor me by treating him as a welcome guest."

She smiles as she smooths her skirts and sits down. With a small gesture she summons a footman to her side to refill her wine glass, and before she sips, she raises her glass to the silent room in a salute. "Gentlemen, I ask you to join me in expressing our welcome to an honored guest."

The nobles depart soon after, hours sooner than normal; they're still complaining and a few are casting aspersions. Some openly doubt the King; if he can't govern his women in something so simple as a choice of dinner guests, how can be govern the land? Their grumblings can be heard over the rumblings of their carriage wheels. Gossip will be spread across the kingdom by nightfall tomorrow—and it so unseemly for a queen and a princess to be at the center of gossip.

Through her maid, who conveys the message to the housekeeper, who conveys the message to Aalot, Belle asks Rumple to join her and her parents in the library. Rumple hesitates: after all that's gone down, to meet with them in private will only fan the gossip flames. He had hoped to sneak out at daybreak, leaving the books behind—he doesn't have a right to them any more. He'd send a brief, apologetic letter to Belle as he soon he arrived back home, and that would be the end of it. A few more polite letters exchanged, perhaps, but all talk of a second meeting, let alone courting, would be politely forgotten. It was such a ridiculous idea, anyway—everything against them, except themselves.

Yet how can he refuse a royal request? He rises from the couch in his chambers, gathers his cane as Aalot watches, and with Athena trotting along behind, threatening to trip him as she attempts to play with his tapping cane, he allows himself to be led back to the library. He is both relieved and discomfited by the background presence of Ulrich and Peyton, who wait to serve.

The King and Queen are seated in twin wingchairs, side by side, with an ornamental table between them holding a tea tray. The Queen is preparing a cup for her husband. They're both silent, but whether that's due to anger and embarrassment or simply a desire to not speak in front of the servants, Rumple can't guess. As he's led into the vast room, his cane taps echoing all the way up the four flights to the ceiling, Rumple examines their faces as closely as he dares, then he instinctively searches for Belle. The chair by the west windows, the one he previously imagined her reading in, is empty. Oh. They're going to tell him it's all off, then. She's probably off in her room, crying—no, not his Belle; she's probably out in the orchard, cursing as loudly as her sweet voice will carry. A flicker of a smile tugs at his lips as he imagines it. She will recover quickly from her heartbreak, less quickly from her humiliation, he supposes. But she will recover. She'll be happy again; it's in her nature. Her unfailing optimism, not her stubbornness, is her real strength, he thinks, and he's grateful she has it. He's happy that she'll be happy again.

The King looks up as Rumple enters. "One extra lump of sugar, dear," he instructs his wife.

"Now, Maurice—"

"I need it."

"I suppose." The Queen adds a third cube, then hands Maurice his cup.

Rumple is suddenly attacked from behind—or so he thinks; lace-covered arms slide around his waist. "Rumple," the sweet voice is so sad in his ear. He twists around; her face flashes from one emotion to another. She releases him hastily before her parents can catch her in the untoward gesture. "I'm so sorry, Rumple—"

"Yeah." The King sets his cup aside and runs a hand through his thinning hair. "I handled that badly." He grimaces. "All these _social_ things—I've never been good at 'em. Anyway, I apologize, Rumplestilskin. I guess I should've, I don't know—what should I have done, Colette? These damn social things—"

"You are their ruler," Colette says quietly, stirring her own tea. "It's they who owe the apology to our guest. But I do suppose we could have waited for another occasion to subject Rumplestiltskin to those. . . gentlemen."

Stunned—his sovereign has taken the blame onto himself! His beloved still cares for him!—Rumple can't find his tongue.

"A little extra sugar for you too, Rumplestiltskin?" Colette gestures with the sugar tongs.

"I. . . " He nods. "Yes, ma'am, thank you."

He had expected hot accusations. He had expected cold criticism. He hadn't expected hugs and sugar.

"Sit down." Colette motions to the settee across from her and Maurice's chairs. Rumple obeys. He glances at Belle as she glances at the space beside him, but the settee is quite small and if she sits, their legs will brush. Belle knows just how far to test her tether, so she sits down on second settee, hands in her lap. Her mother gives her a small nod and continues to prepare Rumple's cup. When it's ready, she extends the cup on its saucer; he rises long enough to accept it, then sits back down.

"I—I'm sorry—I came here uninvited—" he stumbles, the cloud of steam from his cup rising to moisten his cheeks.

"No you didn't," Belle corrects. "I invited you. Anytime that was convenient for you, I said. And that invitation holds."

"We hope you're comfortable in your room." There's a question in Colette's voice that indicates she's really asking whether he'll stay tonight, after all that's happened.

There must be a negation in his expression, because Belle leans over to touch his knee slightly. "Rumple, don't go. Not so soon. It hasn't even been a day."

"But I've been an inconvenience. . . disruption. . . source of embarrassment. . . staying would only lead to more criticism and talk."

"Oh pooh," says Colette. "We're used to that. If people didn't talk about their monarchs, who would they talk about?"

"Show 'em they don't lead us by the nose," Maurice mutters. "You got to stay."

With a nod he accepts the invitation.

"Good," Belle sighs. "That's behind us." She settles back into her settee. "Let's talk about something pleasant. The war."

Colette raises a crooked eyebrow. "Since when has war been a pleasant topic of conversation, my girl?"

She shrugs. "It is now. We're winning in the far north. The ogres have retreated out of Farncombe. Now, I uncovered something else in my reading. Ogres have a fondness for holly berries, but ingesting them causes abdominal pain and—well, other unpleasantness. Not enough to cause permanent damage—"

"But enough to distract them while the archers move in," Rumple finishes.

Colette and Maurice exchange a look that's about more than ogres. "Holly grows thick in the Favorsham Forest," Maurice observes. "I'll send word to the farmers there; we can have a wagonload delivered to the eastern front in two or three days' time."

Belle grins and Rumple mirrors her. He still feels guilty and humiliated but here, in the library, he's safe with this family. A family that could be his.

But that wouldn't be fair to them, as tonight has proven. They deserve a husband for Belle who will bring respect and honor to the crown. In just a few hours, he realizes he's become too fond of them all to put them through any more discomfort, especially if it will make Maurice's rule less secure.

"Rumplestiltskin, I understand you enjoy books as much as Belle and I do," Colette says. "I wonder if you've read _Tales of the Lady of the Lake_?" And the conversation is launched: books, then travel, then children—Maurice seems blissfully unaware that Belle blushes furiously as he tells tales on her, comparing her childhood mishaps to Bae's, as Rumple relates them. They talk easily, pretending the dinner never happened, but Rumple thinks he sees behind the warmth and charm a realization that this—whatever this relationship between him and Belle might have become—will never work. If Maurice was, say, a merchant or a farmer, Rumple would be asking The Question now, with some hope of acceptance, but the four of them can't make decisions based upon their own welfare. They have a larger duty.

So Rumple allows himself to be charmed, and he discovers in his own storytelling skill an ability to charm too, but it's just for this one night. After all, anything that shakes the throne could endanger Bae. It's without guilt that in the dawn, as the servants stir, Rumple sneaks downstairs, borrows ink and paper, and writes a brief, jumbled letter for Belle. "You have immense responsibilities ahead, and a future of greatness. I must honor that. You will be a wonderful leader for us all, Belle. Your letters have meant so much to me, I hope you can forgive me and we can continue our friendship by letter. I must leave now, so that you can become the leader you were meant to be. Thank you, Belle, for your kindness. Rumplestiltskin."

He leaves the books behind. They're just too heavy to carry.


	18. Pedigrees

Moments after her arrival into the world, arms were reaching out to hold her: mother and father, united in their love for her and each other; two older sisters, bemused by her tiny fingers and toes; a granny—it doesn't matter from which side of the family—who took one look at the sky blue eyes and gave her a name, one that told her, in the first moments of life, she was admired, welcomed, protected, loved. Others, so many others, hovered in the background—nurses and nannies and servants and generals and gentry—come to pay homage (and some, come to speculate on how this princess could best be used to help their own sons and daughters advance in society). Though she was third, and therefore unlikely to rule, likely to serve her kingdom only through the marriage she would someday make, the husband she would someday bolster, the sons she would someday raise, her arrival was welcomed, so very welcomed, and not just because she was the most recent in a bloodline, not just because she was beautiful from birth. Her first vision in life, when her sky blue eyes focused, was a smile—it didn't matter whose. Soft fingers reached out to lavish affection, arms reached out to shelter, voices reached out to promise the newborn would want for nothing, all of her needs and most of her dreams would be fulfilled.

It was only her right. Not because she was royal, not because she was beautiful, but because she was.

All babies, Rumple believes, whether princesses or spinner's sons, come into the world owning this right. All babies. Except a few had the right removed from them, maybe gambled away by their parents, maybe stolen away by a curse.

He knows about Belle's first hour of life because she told him about it, laughing in her letters. He knows because he saw it in her parents' eyes last night in the library. He knows because he heard it in her smile, and he is so happy for her. It's only what she deserves.

And she deserves that the same admiration, affection, protection and love continue throughout her life. Her kingdom deserves for their Queen to be secure like this. Rumple can offer her all those things—but in accepting them from him, she would be losing them from her people. First the nobles, then the servants, then her soldiers would start to doubt, start to question, then take away their admiration, then their affection, then their protection. And they'd be right to do so: what judgment does it show to choose as one's consort a shadow like Rumplestiltskin?

As he sits beside his fire, Midnight on his lap, no sound but the crackle of burning twigs and the occasional sigh of the sleeping cat, he compares her first days in life to his own. Yes, they share similar tastes, and yes, sometimes their minds seem to produce the same thought, but he can't imagine why. Their lives have been completely different from the first hour of breath.

He was a quiet baby. That's what the spinsters, his father's aunts, had told him when he asked, but then they looked at each other, measuring their words, snipping off their thoughts like so much thread. A quiet baby, not because he felt content, not because silence was his nature, but because he figured out right away there was no use in fussing. No one would come.

There was a mother, of course there was, but she was, well, unable to give what most mothers give, the aunts said (somehow he came to understand she was too busy making a living on her back). A few months after she'd weaned him, she'd taken him to the aunts to raise, then she'd left for the city. Which city, the aunts couldn't remember. Or maybe they didn't want him to go looking for her (what they didn't realize was that there was no danger of that. He was neither a nostalgic nor a curious child.).

There was a father, Malcolm. He came in and out of Rumple's life, but mostly out. Rumple has three early memories of him. In the first, he remembers standing beside a table in a noisy, smelly place. His father is seated, a tankard in one hand, a drumstick in the other (turkey. To this day Rumple can still smell it and his stomach still clutches.). Malcolm is bent over a plate of vegetables. A woman—or maybe it was a long-haired man; Rumple can't recall—brings him a loaf of bread and more ale (he remembers that distinctly: "More ale!" his father shouts, and throws a coin into the air.). Malcolm's hair is long and unwashed (Rumple knows now that was a sign of the downward spiral of a drinking binge. Normally Malcolm kept himself washed, his hair and nails trimmed so he would appear approachable and respectable. Easier to draw in inexperienced gamblers that way.).

Grease on his chin, Malcolm tears off chunks of turkey with his teeth and calls for more ale. When there's little but bone and sinew left on the drumstick, Malcolm tosses it beneath the table, where the tavern keeper's dog mauls it. He knows he's going to get smacked for it, but Rumple whimpers anyway. "Papa, please." Malcolm chuckles. He'll make Rumple work for it. "Please, what?"

That's all right; Rumple has no pride. "I'm hungry."

"You didn't earn your food today." True. Rumple was supposed to pick pockets while Malcolm distracted the victims. He has the fingers for it, long and thin and nimble, and usually he succeeds: when he's caught, his frail frame and big brown eyes get him out of trouble. Usually. But today his mind just wasn't in his work. He'd forgotten altogether what he was supposed to do to the first victim and when the second caught him, he just couldn't work up the tears that would get him off the hook. They'd had to run, a copper hot on their heels. Malcolm is right: Rumple hasn't earned his bread.

When Papa gets up to use the privy, Rumple swipes a turnip from Malcolm's plate. To this day, Rumple hates turnips.

The second memory may have actually happened before or after the first; he can't judge because he seemed just as small in both. He's being beaten up by a group of farm boys, larger but not necessarily older than himself. While they are pounding on him, their fathers are smacking Malcolm around in the same alley. Rumple remembers the smell of piss in the puddle of rainwater the boys thrust his face into. He remembers feeling the pain of having his shoes stolen from him but not the pain of the kicks and punches; somewhere along the line, he's become inured. Why he remembers this out of all the other beatings he and Malcolm took in those years, it's because for once it isn't punishment for a failed con game. They are being beaten up just for the hell of it. Except, when it's over and Malcolm extends a hand toward his son, it's not to pick him up; it's to slap him. Rumple has never understood why.

In his final memory of his father, Malcolm appears at the aunts' cottage. Rumple has been living there about a year. He's well fed and well dressed in clothes he and the aunts made themselves. He's learning a trade—the spinsters will apprentice him out next year to a local master spinner—and he's damn good at it. He loves the wheel like nothing else he's ever touched; it makes his mind go numb and his body float away until all that's left is his fingers. The wheel chases the world away, but more importantly, it makes Rumple disappear.

When Malcolm shows up, he's well fed and well dressed too—so that means he's working a con. Still, Rumple can't resist when he calls him "son" and asks him to take a ride with him in his brand new carriage, maybe even live with him in his new house. Open arms and ruffled hair are, it seems, Rumple's weakness. He leaps into the carriage. There's another boy inside, seated beside an elderly man; Malcolm introduces them as friends. "Do you know what today is?" Malcolm asks with a twinkle in his charming eye.

This is probably a trick, Rumple realizes, but he dares answer, "It's my birthday." The aunts baked him a pie; it's cooling on the window sill and he looks back at it longingly as Malcolm jiggles the reins and the horse starts forward.

Maybe Malcolm doesn't hear him. "It's Anthony's birthday. We're all going to a carnival to celebrate!"

Anthony and his grandfather cheer.

Rumple shrinks into the leather seat.

Not that it isn't a special day: Malcolm seems to have plenty of money to spend on toys and treats for Anthony, and there's even a bag of candy for Rumple so he can enjoy the sight of his new friend taking a pony ride and swinging a mallet to ring a bell at the top of a stand. Anthony throws three little balls at ceramic dogs on a shelf and wins a prize by knocking one down. Anthony goes into a house of distorted mirrors with Malcolm while Rumple waits outside with Anthony's grandfather. Anthony is lifted onto the strong man's shoulders and paraded up and down through the game rows as everyone applauds the birthday boy. And when night falls and the fair goers gather on a hill to watch fireworks light the dark sky, Anthony sits in Malcolm's lap. His head falls onto Malcolm's shoulder and he drifts off to sleep.

"How would you like to have a new brother?" Malcolm asks as he carries Anthony in his arms to the carriage, the grandfather and Rumple trailing. Rumple isn't sure whether the question is for him or Anthony, so he remains silent. When they arrive at the aunts' cottage, Malcolm says he's a big enough boy to go inside by himself. "But tell your aunts to make a nice suit of clothes for you, because any day now, you'll be going to meet your new mama."

Rumple takes himself inside. He doesn't wave as the carriage drives away.

Malcolm never comes back. As an adult, Rumple figures out that the carnival was another con. The grandfather, Rumple learns, was a wealthy shipping man whose son-in-law had died at sea. The rich young widow had been fighting off suitors, all of them after her money, until her father met the (apparently) equally wealthy widower Malcolm, who also had a young son to raise. The courtship was brief. It was the most successful con of Malcolm's career.

These are their pedigrees: Belle's, full of love and security; Rumple's, full of lies. No, he's never learned to fight back or even speak up from himself: there was never a point to it. And anything the gray men might have to say against him might be false in fact but truthful in substance. He had hoped that as his life had improved over the years with the addition of friends and a little respect from his fellow townsmen, maybe he had changed too; maybe he'd found his strength. Last night had shown him he was the same little sniveler who'd swiped scraps from a stronger man's table.

Belle needs more than a companion of the heart: she needs a consort. A champion against her enemies, foreign and domestic. He wants nothing less for her than everything she needs and deserves.

That's not him.


	19. You Called Me Sweetheart

The pain in his ankle, neglected for so many miles, has given up seeking his attention, leaving behind in its place a numbness. He's tired of walking, tired of thinking, but it's still another fifteen miles to Ramsgate. He reaches into his knapsack for his hand spinner; although he carries it everywhere, he usually doesn't use it as he walks, because he'll get lost in the spinning when he really needs to focus on the sights and sounds around him. Travel, even on this well-used road, can be risky for a great many reasons. He's been soaked to the skin by sudden rains, chased by wild dogs, run off the road by drunken drivers, dive-bombed by birds protecting their nests, even skunk-sprayed once. He's been beaten and robbed four times. But as he walks farther and farther away from the woman he loves and the people he's grown attached to, everyone from king to cook (he will admit he even likes Aalot to a small degree), his heart hurts more than his feet, beleaguering him with doubts, so he reaches for the spinner and busies his hands.

An hour later, he growls in frustration. For once, spinning his failed him. With each crunch on the leaves, his footfalls are nagging him: Why not? Why not? Why not go back? Why not ask for that private audience with Maurice? Why not begin to court the lady who's made it crystal clear she wants to see more of him? Why not leave it to Belle or her parents or Fate to figure out what to do about the gray men? Why not put himself first?

"Because I love her, that's why," he mutters to his boots.

So he keeps walking.

Coming up fast from behind, a vehicle makes him dart off the road and into the gutter. He uses the interruption as an excuse to look around for a place to rest. He hasn't any food with him (why didn't he ask Helena? She would have happily packed him a lunch.) but he might scrounge some asparagus or fireweed or pennycress. He's also in need of water. As many times as he's passed this way, he knows every farmer who's willing to allow a traveler access to a well. Another three miles and he'll come to one—

The vehicle behind him is suddenly in front of him, spraying him with dust. Even before the driver has yelled "whoa," the little door flies open and a familiar voice shouts, "Rumple!"

She's out onto the road, her skirts dragging dust, before the driver can climb down to assist her. She's across the road, into the gutter and into his arms before he can collect his wits. She's as dirty and sweaty as he is, but she's also soft and firm at the same time, confident in her touch, and when she lifts her cheek from his chest and looks up into his eyes, her gaze is unafraid. "Rumple," she says softly, then she pushes away from him and scowls. "Rumplestiltskin! What do you mean by running out on us?" Her hand dips into her skirt pocket and then she's fluttering a paper in his face. "What do you mean, 'continue our friendship by letter'?" Moisture pools at the bottoms of her eyes. "Don't you—"

"Belle," he starts, but he has no idea how to begin an explanation.

She glances over her shoulder at the driver, who's pretending to adjust the harness. It's clear from the tension in the man's back, though, that he can hear the conversation, so Belle links her arm in Rumple's and draws him into the field. She finds a tree for them to hide behind and she lowers her voice. At last she allows the tears to spill over. "Rumple—" is all she can get out before the sobs come.

He brushes her hair from her face and rubs small circles on her back. He dares to press her against his chest and murmur in her ear, "Sweetheart, it's all right. All right."

Her sobs suddenly shut off like a river suddenly dammed by a fallen log and she glances up at him. "You called me 'sweetheart.'"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Didn't mean 'sweetheart'? You don't feel—"

"Didn't mean to be disrespectful—"

"Oh, stop that!" She pushes against his chest but doesn't pull away. "Talk to me like I'm a woman, not—" She waves her hand toward the carriage; he understands she's indicating the King's insignia on the door. "A title. Call me 'sweetheart,' if that's how you really feel, because that's how I feel."

"Sweetheart." He breathes the word, pouring relief and affection into his breath. But his hopeless expression doesn't match his voice.

"Well, then, if that's how we feel," her chin rises in determination, "there should be nothing we can't overcome."

He shakes his head; he can't let her get her hopes up. From his knapsack he takes out a spare tunic and spreads it on the ground, then takes her hand and urges her to sit. When she has, he lowers himself, depending on the cane as a substitute for a leg; she watches, ready to offer help if he needs it, but he doesn't and she makes no overprotective move. He admires that about her; it shows that her eagerness to be helpful is tempered with respect for other people's independence. It's how his friends and Bae treat him: not as if his disability doesn't exist, but as if he's perfectly capable of managing on his own and will ask for help when he's not. It's nothing like how Milah treated him ("Can't you carry some of the firewood for a change?" "Do have you be so slow?" "Do you have to leave that damn stick where I'll trip over it in the dark?").

They sit in quiet for a moment, her hand still in his, each pretending they've forgotten she no longer needs to be lowered to the ground. He admires this about her, too, that she doesn't have to fill the quiet, that she understands there's communication in silence too, a sort of trust.

"I think I was wrong to leave without speaking to you first," he begins. "It seemed like the less hurtful thing to do, but it wasn't."

"No, it wasn't," she agrees.

"Not for me, either." He falls silent again.

Her voice is steady now. "Tell me what went wrong."

"It's not us. You and I and Bae, we would be happy together. Not perfect—I'm so much older than you, and I live such a different life—"

"Quieter," she admits. "Less crowded."

"Less choice. In everything. Slower to change."

"Living in the castle is a tradition, not a requirement, for a princess. My parents would be pleased to give us a house of our own, small, outside of Avonlea. In fact, that's how their marriage started, so they could live in peace as they learned how to be married. They only moved into the castle when my mother said she was ready."

"Your parents are wise. A man could ask for no better in-laws."

"You got on with them well. My father respects you, and his respect isn't freely given. My mother enjoys your company. She considers you a welcome diversion from—" she waves her hand at the carriage again. That insignia has become for her a shorthand in expressing everything connected with a royal life. "Neither of them, really, was born into that life, and they've never become completely comfortable with it. They look upon the formal dinners and balls and the state visits as"—she shrugs—"part of the costuming. It isn't like that, most days. I mean, yes, my father has so many people he needs to meet with every day, but he manages to sneak out, once a week, to go hunting. And my mother is expected to take tea a couple of times a week with the duchesses, and patronize the arts. . . ." her voice trails off. "That doesn't have to be. . . I mean, as the Queen, yes, I'd have to fulfill the same duties as my father, but there's no prescribed role for a Queen's consort. And in the years before I take the throne, we would live as private citizens—" She blushes. "I'm crossing a bridge that hasn't been built yet, aren't I? Is that it? Am I too pushy?"

He shakes his head. "If you were a seamstress or a governess or the daughter of a baker, I would be kneeling before you now." He's blushing too.

"It's not us," she sighs in relief. "It's not me or you or my parents, or whether I'd be a good mother to Bae—"

"No!" he exclaims. "You'd be a wonderful mother to any children we might—" then he bites his tongue. "Now I'm the one being pushy."

Her voice drops low. "I think we'd make wonderful parents together." She pauses to think. "It's not really the way my family lives, either, is it? The castle, the servants, the balls?"

"No."

She spreads the letter out on her lap. "'I must leave now, so that you can become the leader you were meant to be.' What did you mean?"

"You must have the respect of your subjects, to be an effective ruler. All your subjects, including—"

"The gray men."

He nods. "And other rulers around the world. They must look upon you as invulnerable. Alone, you would have their respect; you're strong, decisive, knowledgeable; you generate trust and loyalty and affection, from all your subjects, from the street sweepers to the dukes. But your choice of husband will determine how that loyalty changes. It's the most important decision you can make, as far as your people are concerned. The man you choose must be as strong, decisive, knowledgeable and respected as you. Even though he'll never rule, and even though you're a smart and independent woman, the people will assume he's your foremost advisor."

"The power behind the throne," she mutters. "The curse of every queen. But I'll make it clear that the decisions are mine."

"And perhaps most people will come to believe you. But it may be too late by then. You will be judged—are being judged—by the people you associate with, and the most important of these will be the man you choose to marry and have children with. Marry a man like Gaston, who's strong and decisive—but also ambitious and egotistical—"

"And dumb as a rock farm," she interjects.

"And the people won't respect you. Marry a man like me—I'm everything Gaston isn't, including smart and loyal and respectful of your leadership, but I'm also a known coward. Not just for my army desertion, but against every man who's ever raised a hand against me. . . ." His voice grows hoarse. "And every woman who's ever cursed my name. . . especially my former wife. I've never fought back. I've stood up to no one, not even her."

"Gaston," she interrupts hastily. "You stood up to Gaston."

"For Bae's sake. For myself," he lowers his gaze to the ground, "I can't even speak. And that's the truth of it, Belle. Not false modesty, and no titles, no castles, no amount of bowing and scraping will change that. Among my friends and loved ones, I feel safe and I can stand my ground in a disagreement, but even that small confidence took a long time to build. It will not happen for me against the likes of the gray men. Sweetheart, a marriage to the likes of me will bring a quick end to your rule, and this kingdom can't survive that. Especially now, weakened by war, impoverished by expenditures for that war, we need the security of knowing if anything happened to your father, you would assume the throne."

"It doesn't have to be me," she says stubbornly. "If I abdicate, my cousin is next in line. He's a good leader and a good man."

Rumple shakes his head. They both know she's wrong. "It's you we need. And you need this. You were born to lead Aramore."

"What do we do?" she asks miserably, clenching his hand tighter.

"The right thing."

"Don't we deserve to be happy?"

"You might enjoy the quiet life in Ramsgate, but you won't be happy because you won't be living as your true self."

"Something will happen." She purses her lips. "Something will change. They say love is the most powerful magic. We will be together."

"I need to go back to Ramsgate," he says gently. "And you need to go back to Avonlea. And we'll continue to write letters, because we're good for each other."

"And we'll continue to hope that something will change." Her tone is firm, but there's a question in her eyes.

"We'll continue to hope that love will deliver an answer."

She stands. "Well, at least, let me give you a ride back home."

His ankle accepts the invitation on his behalf. He gives Belle his arm and takes her back to the carriage, and when the driver moves to open the door for Her Highness, Rumple shoots him a glare; confused, the driver steps back and Rumple quickly takes his place at the door, opening it and holding Belle steady by the waist as she gathers her voluminous skirts for the short climb inside. He no longer wonders whether Belle will be insulted by his boldness in touching her; he's pretty sure she likes it as much as he does. But once she's settled into her seat, he allows a moment to worry that this ride—it'll be about three hours yet—will be one long tussle between them. Belle's a fighter, he knows that about her already, and she's not ready to accept his reasoning that they not pursue a courtship. When he lifts himself into the carriage, however, he discovers his worry is unfounded; they won't be speaking of anything personal, because a chaperone is present, a woman younger than Belle, whom Belle introduces as Eloise.

Belle is, so properly, sitting beside her maid. Rumple would grumble, except it's probably better this way. They must keep a distance if they're going to keep their friendship intact.

"The artist of cats." He remembers the sketch of Athena that the maid created. "A talented artist, may I say."

And after that, Eloise is won. Belle and Rumple could say or do anything and she would not report them—more likely, she would assist them. The three of them chat idly, about cats and sketching and the castle and Ramsgate. They slip into silence as the carriage's rocking lulls them into a half-sleep.

When they arrive, an hour or so before sunset, he invites them in, though he's anguished because not only is this hovel no fit place for a princess, it's also a bit of a mess. At least the dishes are clean. He's gotten a bit sloppy since Bae moved out. Belle doesn't pretend to not notice; rather, she pretends to be charmed, especially at the cat who's sleeping on Bae's pallet and pries one eye open momentarily before dozing off again.

Belle kneels beside the cat. "Midnight?"

"Yes."

Disturbed by the approaching stranger, the cat gives up on her nap and with a yawn, stretches out her paws. Her muzzle has grayed, Rumple notices, with a start, for the first time. When did that happen? Belle presents the back of her hand for Midnight to sniff. The cat obliges, then permits Belle to scratch the top of her head. As she converses with the cat, the maid sits quietly in the rocking chair, uncomfortable, torn between the need to respect her superior's privacy and her duty to the royal family. In this one-room cottage, it's not possible to achieve both aims, so she focuses her attention on the cat.

"This must be where Bae sleeps, then, since Midnight is sleeping here too," Belle remarks. "And that one?" She points to the other pallet. "You sleep there?"

"Yes. There isn't much to see here," he adds apologetically.

"But it's just as you described it. I feel as if I know this town and all the residents."

Rumple prepares tea—realizing, as he starts a fire, that he has only two mugs but three guests. He could hurry next door to borrow mugs from Gretchen, but then he'd be obliged to introduce the visitors to the neighbors, and that would kick up a fuss all over the village—an unnecessary fuss, as he sees it. In an hour, the guests will leave and all will return to normal. He decides he and the driver will simply have to drink from bowls.

He moves about, subtly straightening up as he assembles the tea things. Belle begins to ask about the neighbors, the village, Midnight's descendants—she remembers everything he ever wrote, and it all seems to be important to her. From the small window and the open door he introduces his world to her. She stands improperly close as he points out Luke's house, the communal well, the tavern, the bakery. Looking down at her, he watches her shoulders ease, her breath coming more slowly and deeply, a smile slowly forming. She is comfortable here.

The driver comes in from tending the horse and Rumple invites him to the table. "If we leave soon, we can make it to Petitdale at nightfall, ma'am. There's a nice inn there."

Eloise prompts gently, "We can send a message from there. Your father will be worried."

Belle glances at Rumple. "No, he won't. But yes, we'll leave soon."

Eloise relaxes now. The tea is ready, the driver doesn't complain about the bowl, and Rumple is able to produce a little bread and cheese to make a meal. Belle continues to chat, so easily that Rumple falls into the conversation too, almost forgetting he's being observed by two servants, but never forgetting that he can't build false hopes by allowing the conversation to turn too personal.

Belle's cup is drained and Rumple offers to refill it, but a gentle "ma'am" from the driver produces a sigh from her and she stands. "I suppose we must go. Thank you, Rumple, for showing me a part of your life."

"Thank you, ma'am, for the ride home."

She looks hurt by the formal address. They both know why he's doing it, though. She walks to the carriage, her entourage following. This time, after lifting Eloise in, the driver mounts his box; he's learned his lesson. His hands on her waist, Rumple starts to steady Belle, but she pauses on the step. "You'll write to me, won't you?"

"Immediately." It's a silly thing to say, but his head is filled with clouds. She turns toward the carriage and he lifts her. Her ear brushes against his cheek and he can't stop himself from whispering, "I feel—"

"What do you feel?" she whispers back, turning her face toward his.

He opens and closes and opens his mouth, not daring to say what he really wants to. "If you were a seamstress—"

"Or a governess, or the daughter of a baker," she finishes. "But I'm not."

"Or if I was a. . . " he looks down in shame. "If I was a brave man. But I'm not."

"Are you sure, Rumple?"

Her question surprises him. He doesn't answer.

"Write to me." She climbs into the cabin and pulls the door closed behind her. She raises the shade on the window to watch Rumple as the driver shakes the reins and the horse starts forward.

He's still standing in the road after the carriage has taken its choice of roads at the crossroad. Morraine rushes up, grabbing his sleeve. "Is it Bae?"

He understands the question. She's misinterpreted the presence of the royal carriage and she's shaking like a daisy in a thunderstorm. "Bae's safe," he assures her.

Her mother has caught up with her now. "That was the Princess, wasn't it? I thought I recognized her from the festival."

"She gave me a ride home." He's still watching the road. "She happened to be driving by and she noticed my cane."

"Come and have supper with us," Gretchen offers. "You've had a long journey." With a hand on his arm, she urges him to turn away from the road.


	20. Proclamations, Pirates and Proposals

"Rumplestiltskin." The voice is gruff but friendly at the same time; its owner has spent his life, with the exception of a year, living outdoors, among livestock and men. Walking past Fort's farm, Rumple exchanges some kind words with Rulf, the farmer's son, the wounded war veteran. One-armed, yet Rulf is tossing bales of hay off a wagon with as much square-jawed determination as he had a year ago. Rumple clutches his cane a little tighter and vows to show just as much fortitude as he continues his journey into town.

Fort's whole family has the same raw strength. Rulf's mother, also born and raised on a farm, is equally rough, a quality that made her a good match for his father, so many years ago. Fort had seen that immediately, with a single glance at her red hands and her stained apron; he had proposed without courtship and her father, with a single glance at the land Fort had inherited, accepted on her behalf. At the time no one had thought to ask Beryl her opinion of her suitor or his prospects. Twenty-five years later, still no one had. She's always gone about her work wholeheartedly, neither smiling nor complaining, and giving every ounce of her strength to the farm and her menfolk, so her family and the community just assumed she was happy. Or at least, content.

Rumple wonders about that now as he watches her hang the wash. He wonders, if she'd been asked, would she have chosen Fort and his farm? Or did she, like some farm girls, dream of a life in the city, as a merchant's wife perhaps, with modern conveniences? Or had she been raised to follow her father's expectations for her? Or maybe she really was satisfied with the life she'd been handed.

He wonders about her, not because he knows her—she's barely spoken a dozen words to him; she's always busy when he's come to the farm, always washing something or mending something or peeling something, and unlike her husband, she doesn't seem to need social interaction. But the reason Rumple wonders about her is that lately, he's been wondering about all the women in Aramore, those whose tender years are so quickly burned away with floor scrubbing and diaper changing, and those who wear gowns and dance in great halls. He seems them all differently now, those women whose knees and hands swell with labor and those women whose breath is choked off by ever-tighter corsets and equally tight-minded husbands.

He wonders about them because of Belle. A queen in the making who's never knelt to scour the stones, but who, nonetheless, has had no more choice than Beryl had in where she lived, what work she pursued. With indulgent parents, Belle was given an education and a childhood that featured play, but she'd always had a life prescribed by others, including people whom she'd never met, people who had died long before she was born. There is a major difference between Belle and Beryl, however: whether it's true or not, Belle believes she has some control over her fate.

Particularly as it regards her selection of a husband.

He's had letters from her, sometimes more than one a day, since returning from Avonlea a season ago. Her letters are frank and bold and affectionate. Her feelings for him have not waned—nor his for her. She continues to reject all suits, and her parents neither encourage nor discourage her in clinging to her hope for, as she puts it, "something to happen" that will change him, make him her equal in bravery. Make him her worthy.

He is so much older than she is, and that makes him world-wise and realistic, not just about people like the gray men, but about himself. As he walks past Fort's farm and exchanges a nod of greeting with Beryl, Rumplestiltskin accepts the truth about himself. Fate is smarter than he is, putting himself and Belle in different spheres, because if Belle had been a seamstress, a governess or a baker's daughter, he would have married her as quickly as Fort had married Beryl—and she would have been just as trapped.

Just as trapped as Milah had been.

Rumple has tried to make her understand that, but she's too strong-willed and his protests are too weak. He wonders if there will ever come a time and a place where people like him and Belle can live true to their natures.

He walks into town, in his mind composing his next letter. He walks into his little house, greets the cat sleeping on Bae's bed. She's slowing down in her elder years, he thinks; no longer is she fast enough to catch enough food to meet her needs. He cuts up some chicken for his dinner and tosses her a slice. This is not a bad life, he thinks as he scratches her ears: chicken in the pot, wool on the wheel, coins in his pocket, a son who will be coming home soon. Rumple is content.

Or should be.

* * *

"I know it's none of my business," Bae writes, "and maybe you think it's not appropriate for a guy to ask about his father's love life, but—what happened between you and Belle? I'm assuming something did, because right after you left Avonlea, it was like all the wind got knocked out of her. That's what my friend Peyton says. And it doesn't seem to be coming back anytime soon. She still works in the school, but she doesn't go out riding any more, or for walks in the orchard, or shopping. She doesn't go down to the kitchen and sit with the cooks any more either, Peyton says. So what happened? I thought you and her were getting along great."

"Dear son, Belle and I are indeed good friends and I hope we will always be. She is a delightful woman and the gentleman who marries her will be the luckiest man in Aramore.

"We have had heavy rains of late, which washed away the footbridge at the river road. . . ."

"Dear Papa, All right, I get it. I'll mind my own business. Love, Bae."

* * *

He resumes his two businesses, spinning and writing. He works sunrise to sundown, focusing on the work and the day in front of him, blocking out memories, because the past is out of his reach, and wishes, because the future isn't in his control. In the evenings he occasionally visits with Gretchen and Luke, or he reads the books Belle loans him. He writes to her about the changing season, about his garden and sheep, about spinning. The information he's sharing doesn't really matter; it's the fact that he's still sharing that matters, that he hasn't closed the door on their relationship. And she, likewise, writes about her school and the life of the castle. She stops challenging his notions about himself and his suitability for her. He knows her, though: she hasn't given up; she's just waiting for the "something."

In the last week of autumn, the kid who sweeps up at the Hog's Head comes running for Rumple, nearly sending him into a heart attack. Rumple knocks his knee against the wheel as he hastily stands in answer to the boy's breathless call. But it's not Bae, not Bae, just the kid running to stay warm on a frosty night as he's been sent across the village square to fetch the "town reader."

Rumple gathers his cloak and his cane and follows the kid, more stiffly. The tavern is smoky with burning lanterns and crowded with men with tankards in their fists. Their ale here is watered down, but the conversation is not, and spirits run high despite the weak drinks. As soon as Rumple enters, the crowd parts for him—he's puzzled by that—and the men quiet down. "Here he is," someone announces. "Give him the paper." Another adds, "And a hot buttered rum for his troubles."

Rowntree, Rulf and Fort are leaning on the bar, but the former straightens as Rumple is nudged to the front. A mug is thrust into Rumple's free hand and Rowntree welcomes him. "Stiltskin, got somethin' that needs readin.'" Without further ado, the farmer stretches out a scroll on the bar. Rumple recognizes the insignia imprinted on the parchment and the swirly penmanship of the message.

"Rider delivered it tonight. Said it's from the King."

Rumple confirms that, and murmurs ripple across the tavern. Men press forward for a closer look. "It's a proclamation. It says, 'By order of His Majesty Maurice, by these words let it be known that henceforth in the kingdom of Aramore'"—Rumple pauses for breath; the chamberlain tends toward excess verbosity—"'the first day of winter will be known as Soldiers Day, a day to honor the sacrifices made by all who serve and have served in His Majesty's army, navy and Home Guard. Let every town and every village show its gratitude for those who risk their lives and leave behind home and family to defend our kingdom. In witness whereof, I hereby set my hand: Maurice.'"

The men mull this over, then the chatter begins. The barkeeper slams his hand onto the counter and shouts over them: "Bein' a good loyal subject of the King, I'm buyin' the first round for every soldier, servin' and served, and the fathers of them that died in service!" He makes Rowntree his first honoree, followed by Fort and Rulf, then a dozen others press forward to collect on the offer. "Don't drink yet, boys; we're gonna toast our lads and lasses in uniform."

Mugs are filled and distributed, and when the barkeeper raises his in preparation for a salute, Fort bellows, "Wait a minute, you missed somebody, Micah. " He clasps Rumple's shoulder. "My buddy here."

"Pour the man a ale," Rulf declares.

"No sir, no sir!" the barkeeper shouts back. "Now I tolerate him in my 'stablishment for the sake of you boys, but I ain't buyin' for the likes of him. You want him to drink, you pay for it. But far as I'm concerned, he ain't no veteran and he don't deserve to drink with the rest of us."

There are responses of "hear, hear" and "you tell 'em" and even a "get the coward outta here." Fort can be heard over them, arguing, "Veteran or no, he's got a son servin', and _that_ ougta count for somethin'."

"Does for me," Rulf says, slamming a copper on the counter. "Pour him a drink, Micah."

"Fellas, please," Rumple tries to interrupt in a soft voice. He casts worried glances over his shoulder as the crowd seems to press in on him. "Let's not—we don't need—I'll leave before trouble starts." He tries to turn, but Fort's heavy hand on his shoulder stays him. The farmer leans over the counter, into the barkeeper's face. "My son said pour the man a drink, so start pourin.'"

The barkeeper leans forward too, his sneer equally formidable. "Now, Fort, you had one too many tonight, otherwise I'd drag you out into the alley and we'd see who runs this tavern."

"You ain't gonna disrespect—"

"Fort!" Rumple wrenches loose. "I appreciate your loyalty, but this isn't worth a fight. I'll see you later." And before fists start flying along with words, Rumple pushes his way through the crowd. Once free of the tavern, he runs, as best he can, back home and panting, rests his back against the door. Thankfully, no one follows him.

When he writes to Bae and Belle of how Ramsgate celebrates Soldiers Day, he withholds this part of the story.

* * *

"'Dear Rumple,'" he reads the letter aloud to the cat, who's sleeping at his feet. "'Do you recall the Petition Day incident with the taxi driver who whipped his horse? Well, my father is determined that such incidents will not be tolerated in Aramore. He has passed a law making it punishable by fines or prison time to beat any animal, except where it may be necessary to save a human life (like if a woodcutter is attacked by a wolf). We call it 'Athena's Law.' We all know, of course, the threat of punishment will not prevent cruelty, but perhaps it will save some animals' lives. We must try, anyway.

"'You were there with me when this problem was brought to light. You have a share in this law, Rumple. It is a beginning, I think, of better ways. A beginning of what you and I could accomplish together. Even if it is only as friends. Your friend, Belle.'"

Rumple lays the letter aside. Unimpressed, Midnight twitches her tail in her sleep.

* * *

Morraine's seventeenth birthday arrives, and with it, Bae, who's been granted an entire week of leave. His master Fendral, now Captain of the Home Guard, has also gone home for a brief visit after their scouting expedition in Bogamir has been completed. Bae comes bearing gifts from a shopping spree in Avonlea, as well as, of course, books from the royal library: there is a mahogany walking stick that Bae's had cut to precisely the right size for his father, there is a bag of candies imported from Agrabah that he plans to give to Lucas and Gretchen just before he takes them aside to ask an important—but hardly unexpected—question, and for the birthday girl, there is a tiny velvet-covered box containing an item that it took him a full six months of saving to be able to afford.

"It's beautiful." Rumple admires the box's contents. "She'll adore it. Is it. . . more than a birthday gift?"

Bae explains to his father that it's a new custom that's come in from Montdemarre, a land formerly inaccessible but recently opened up for trade by Maurice's navy. "In Montdemarre, this is called a 'betrothal ring.' It's customarily given a year before the wedding, and on the day of the wedding, the gentleman gives a second ring." He smiles coyly as he awaits his father's reaction.

"So you intend to propose," Rumple beams. He marvels at the changes in his son, which he sees as indicative of the changes in the world: traditionally, in the Frontlands rings are never worn; they are considered a waste of money. Nor is there a lengthy delay between the proposal and the wedding ceremony, a month at most. But Rumple realizes that Bae wishes to wait until he's admitted into the army and has a decent income with which to start his married life. It's a solid plan for which Rumple knows Lucas and Gretchen will appreciate Bae's practical thinking.

Rumple also knows the reason Bae is proposing so early: there's a new family in town, the eldest son of which is twenty, tall, and casting his handsome gaze in Morraine's direction. For this Rumple appreciates Bae's practical thinking.

"I'm happy for you, son. Morraine will make a fine wife." Rumple wants to say more, but the lump in his throat gets in the way.

"It won't be an easy life, being married to a soldier," Bae worries.

"No life is easy. Not even the King's." Or the King's daughter's, Rumple adds silently. "But Morraine has a strong spirit and a sense of adventure that will see you through."

"And a sense of humor," Bae says wryly. "She's had to, to put up with me."

Rumple chuckles as he hugs Bae in congratulations. "You'll continue to live on the castle grounds?"

"There is some housing set aside for married soldiers. That was Queen Colette's idea, and it's a good one: when the soldiers go off to battle, the wives and children can look out for each other."

 _Battle._ Rumple gulps. But this is the life Bae has chosen. And they are nearing a time of peace, a time of development, so perhaps Bae won't be called upon to leave the kingdom. Rumple pushes his attention to the latter part of Bae's statement. _Children_. "I presume grandparents help out too?"

Bae's eyes shine as he nods. "We'll expect to see you often, Papa."

For just a moment, Rumple feels lighthearted. Then his eyes fall upon one of the books Bae has brought, something he specifically requested to borrow, to assist a small shipping company headquartered at the port. _Maritime Law_ , it's called.

Holding the borrowed book forces him to face a fact: it's time for Bae to hear the truth. Rumple's put it off for too long, for fear that Bae will turn against him, but he has to know now.

"Son, there's something I need to tell you. A lie—it's about a lie I told you, long ago." His eyes plead for patience, if not understanding.

"A lie." Bae's tone reflects disbelief. His papa has _never_ lied. Avoided answering, yes, but never lied.

"Your mother." Rumple is stumbling. He had prepared his explanation, long ago, but now that it's time to give it, he's having trouble letting the words out. Why not keep the secret? It's highly unlikely, after all, that Bae would ever find out on his own. But Bae is almost eighteen, almost a soldier and a husband; he's a man. "When you were very little, she—she was unhappy. We were poor, and the village, they wanted nothing to do with us, except to revile us—me, revile me, because of—because I deserted. And you two paid the price, but especially her."

Bae's face has frozen and his eyes glaze over; he is remembering, vaguely, and he's reliving those days.

"She had no friends, no family here, just us, and she was lonely and tired and the work was ageing her before her time." Rumple can't face him now; he stares at the book, at the words _Maritime Law._ "She wanted to leave. She thought if we went somewhere else, far away, things would be different, no one would know about me, but I knew different. I tried to make her stay. I thought we should be enough for her. I didn't understand—I'd never had friends, never felt a part of anything, like she had. I didn't know what a difference it makes, having people who like you." He tilted his head toward the door, reminding them both of the friends they had in the village. "She was lonely and, I think, afraid, and angry, so, so angry at me. I don't know—she said she wished I had fought in the war instead of deserting. Sometimes, when she would come home from the tavern, she would say she wished I had died, so she could collect a war widow's pension and—and the glory of being the wife of a brave man."

"What actually happened, Papa? In the war, I mean. Yeah, you're a timid man, but you've never shirked your duty to me. I don't think you did it then either. Why did you desert?" Bae's voice is brittle.

Rumple rolls up his trouser leg and props his foot on the table. He allows Bae to see the thick scars that cover his entire right calf, and the twisted ankle and deformed foot that previously, Bae had only caught glimpses of. "I did this."

Bae's eyebrows shoot up. He'd always assumed an ogre had mangled the leg.

"To myself. So the general would throw me out. I did this because I was afraid, in part for my own life, and in part for yours. Because the general had a special prisoner, a witch who could foresee the future, parts of it, anyway, and that witch, she predicted your birth. Because of my actions on the battlefield, she said, you would grow up without a father. I was foolish. I believed her words at face value. So I took a sledgehammer and—did this." He turns the ankle in his hands, as far as it will turn; it's been a long time since he's looked closely at his old injury. Then he rolls his pantsleg down again and sets his foot back on the floor. "I've come to know that words can have multiple meanings. I may have been here while you were growing up, but in a way, because of what I did, you were fatherless. I—"

"No!" Bae snaps. "That's not so. I had a father, a good one, who made sure I didn't go hungry or dirty, who taught me—"

"Who robbed you of the life you would have had, if I hadn't been branded a coward."

"Who knows?" Bae throws up his hands. "Dain's father died a drunk. Borin's father ran off and they never heard from him again. Nobody called them cowards, but they were, just the same. You gave me the best life you could, and you loved me, that's what mattered. So no, I won't let you say you weren't a good father to me. What you did"—he waves his hand toward the leg—"yeah, I wish you hadn't done it, but I—" he shrugs. "I've seen men wet their pants before running out onto a battlefield. I've seen them faint. And I've seen them hide under dead bodies, then crawl out when the fighting was over. I don't believe in the word _coward_ any more, not for those who've gone to war. I just believe that people do what they think they have to, to stay alive."

"Most people don't see it that way. For the life that I gave you, because of my desertion—for the life that I _didn't_ give you, I hope that someday—"

Bae holds up his hand in stop gesture. "I forgive you. And for the life that you did give me, I thank you." His hand drops onto Rumple's.

"Thank you for that," Rumple murmurs. "But that's—there's more I need to tell you. I told you, long ago, that your mother died, but that's not true. She met a man, handsome, young, tall, a pirate named Jones—"

"And began an affair with him," Bae surmises, his mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Yes. On the day she went missing, Gretchen told me she'd been seen boarding Jones' ship. We thought she'd been taken. I ran—" he slaps his leg in frustration. "As fast I could manage. I was so afraid the ship would leave before I could reach it, more afraid of what they had done to her. I imagined unspeakable—I ran. They allowed me to board. They laughed; what was I to them? Just a cowardly cripple, not even carrying a weapon, and there were twenty or more of them. Their captain threw a sword at my feet. Pick it up and fight if you want your wife back, he said. I thought they were holding her against her will. I thought they were hurting her. Bae, if I wasn't a coward before, I was then. I couldn't pick up the sword. I begged for her release instead."

Bae returns his father's words to him. "A cowardly cripple against a pirate captain and twenty cutthroats. Papa, I know for a fact you've never touched a sword in your life. Jones would have run you through before your hand even touched the hilt."

"Nevertheless, I should have—"

"Why, Papa?" Bae blurts. "And leave me orphaned?" He's shaking with anger but he fights to keep it penned in.

"At least, you would have grown up knowing your father did his best to protect your mother. At least, she would have known I loved her enough to try to rescue her."

"What use would that knowing have been? I still would've been left alone." Bae sucked in a breath. "I've seen this sort of 'bravery' on the battlefield. A friend of mine ran in swinging his sword and shrieking, half out of his mind, when an ogre devoured our lieutenant. Can you guess what that sacrifice bought him?"

"I learned later that it was all a joke, what Jones told me on that ship," Rumple growls. Rulf had seen them board the ship: arm in arm, they were, Milah and Jones, and once on board, they kissed. For years, I had nightmares of what the tortures I thought she'd been subjected to. I hated myself for not fighting him. Kissing that pirate was no torture, I suppose."

"She must've been happy. She never came back—did she?"

"No. For nearly a year, I would go down to the docks whenever a pirate ship came in and I would ask after them, but—there were tales, of course, of the dashing pirate Jones and his gray-eyed companion who wore a sword on her hip and fought and stole alongside the men. But their ship never returned and she never sent a message. Where she is now, and whether she's alive, I don't know."

"Fendral could make some inquiries for me—if I wanted to know. Not now," Bae spat. "I don't give a damn. Maybe someday, maybe my children will want to know—maybe Morraine and I will want them to know the truth about her, not the pirate queen fantasy. But not now."

"If I'd been a better husband, I would have done as she asked, moved us far away."

"You never could have moved us away from everyone who knew how you got that busted ankle." Bae fixes him with a scowl. "You and Milah would have known. Neither one of you would have ever forgiven you."

"Do you?" Rumple lets a little hope into his voice. "Do you forgive me for lying to you about her death?"

"That was cowardly. That was foolish. Didn't you think I'd hear rumors? Rulf wasn't the only villager down at the docks that day. I'm angry, Papa. Yes, you should have told me the truth—"

"What if you had tried to run after her?" Rumple pleads. "Or worse. What if you had grown up thinking your mother didn't want you, chose a pirate over you?"

"At least it would have been the truth!" Bae rises. "I don't want to talk about this any more. I'm going over to see Morraine." And he's gone before Rumple can protest.

Rumple listens for a long time for the opening of the door. When it doesn't come, he gathers some paper and writes to Belle. Was I right, he begs to know. Should I have kept it a secret? He would have been happier. How much does it hurt, even with ten years passed, a child to learn he was abandoned? Rumple has some experience with that particular emotion, as Belle now knows. Belle knows all his secrets, and now so does Bae. All except for one: how much he needs her.

Bae returns late in the evening. Rumple has waited up and is sitting at fireside with the cat and the box of letters at his feet. Bae nods curtly, strips down to his underwear and climbs into his pallet, his back to the fire. Rumple puts out the candles and goes to bed.

* * *

"I'm going to talk to Lucas and Gretchen today." Bae is sitting at the table when Rumple awakes. He's stoked the fire and has a kettle on, as well as a pot of oatmeal.

Rumple's heart warms as he struggles to his feet, reaching for his new cane. Bae is speaking to him, although his tone is cold. It's a start, better than he has a right to expect. "I should feed the lambs."

"Already done."

Rumple washes and dresses in silence, uncertain how to proceed with the conversation. At least there is one. He sticks his foot into a boot and yelps, then hops about on one foot as he upends the boot and shakes it. A ball of black fur rolls out and vanishes into the cupboard. Rumple shakes his head and Bae snorts a laugh. "Still at it," Bae muses. "Doesn't she know she's an old timer now?"

"Even an old timer can indulge in mischief. I have some nice pork I can fry up tonight, if you'd like to invite Morraine and her parents over for dinner."

Bae smiles ruefully. "If they accept me."

Rumple clicks his tongue. "Ah, Bae, they accepted you a long, long time ago."


	21. Bachelor Parties and Commissions

Though he has absolutely no reason to, Rumple is tapping his fingers nervously on the tabletop as he pretends to read and take notes from _Maritime Law_. Bae is next door and Rumple is listening for some signal of the outcome of his proposal: a laugh, a slamming door, a shout, a cheer. Rumple already knows how Morraine feels about Bae: she's made that obvious every time Bae has come home and every time he hasn't. He already knows how Luke feels: the two men have speculated on their children's future relationship. And he knows how Gretchen feels about Bae: ever since Milah left, Gretchen has been Bae's backup mama. Rumple is certain they will accept Bae's proposal; they welcomed him into their family long ago.

Though it's winter, Rumple has left the window open. Of course, the house next door is sealed off from the chill, but if he listens closely—

A hearty laugh (Luke). A cheer (Morraine).

Bae—and now Rumple—have their answer.

The future in-laws share dinner that evening at Luke and Gretchen's. Rumple digs into his lamb savings to buy a bottle of wine from the Hog's Head (it humiliates him to have to deal with the barkeeper, and he knows he's being overcharged, but the Hog's Head is the only tavern in town). As he's counting the coins in the leather pouch, Rumple calculates how many of them he'll need for the wedding supper, which he'll hire out a room at the inn for; it will be expensive, for Luke's family has a lot of nearby relatives and friends, but Rumple is pleased to do it, for his only son's sake. Besides, he has a year to save up.

During the meal, Bae and Morraine sit side by side, their hands clasped under the table. Their heads tilt toward each other and they talk in low tones, conspiring. Rumple's stomach sinks as he watches them. He's happy for them, of course, but he in this quiet moment he sees the future: it's Bae and Morraine against the world and Rumple is on the outside. A beloved supporter and a respected advisor, yes, but outside nonetheless. Rumple has been displaced—and that's as it should be. Rumple can take pride in seeing that one of the most important tasks a parent has—preparing his child for adulthood—has been accomplished. Still. . . .

Gretchen is talking about housewares that she will gather over the next year for the bride and groom. Luke is wondering whether the army will permit sheep on the grounds of the married soldiers' housing unit: he would like to give the newlyweds a ram and a pair of ewes to start a flock. He's saying that he understands Bae will have little time for tending sheep, but Morraine will be glad to have something productive to do during the day, until the first baby comes. At this, Morraine lifts her head from Bae's and gives her father a playful slap. It's just a fond gesture, though: of course there will be a baby. Gods willing.

As the teasing and the plans fly back and forth, Gretchen watches Rumple from the corner of her eye, and at one point, as he refills her mug with wine, she assures him, "We'll borrow a wagon and go up to Avonlea once a month to visit them. You'll ride with us." What she's really saying is _you won't be left out_. He's grateful, though not surprised.

It's after he's gone home for the night (and Bae has taken Morraine for a walk around the town square) that Rumple reflects on the likelihood that those visits to Avonlea will mean he'll be running into Belle. Temptation and frustration.

But at least that's a year from now, plenty of time for feelings and lives to change.

* * *

Luke and Gretchen post the banns at the church the next day. Rumple and the young couple stand with them to talk to the priest, and then to accept congratulations, as is customary, from passersby as word quickly spreads. It's been nearly a year since the last wedding and with half the town being related to or friends with the bride-to-be's parents, there's hope that the wedding supper will be a big feast—though that doesn't seem possible, considering who'll be paying for it.

Rumple notices a lack of surprise—Bae and Morraine have been perceived as a couple ever since they played on the rug together as infants—from the public. He also notices a lack of sincerity in the congratulations—as they shake hands or kiss cheeks with the girl's parents, people keep frowning his way. Not that they don't think Bae's a fine lad and a good catch for a sheepman's daughter, but—shudder—perhaps cowardice skips a generation, eh? Heavens forbid that the babies to come will take after their paternal grandfather.

Though, a few folk murmur, the spinner has proven rather smart. . . and then their gaze travels from the cane-carrying old man to their own adult children, recently returned from a winding-down war, and there are shoulder claps and hugs for all friends and family gathered outside the church. Then a black cat appears in the doorway of the church and weaves itself around the visitors' legs, and that prompts some folk to remember Stiltskin's cat-loaning program, and with a "what the hell" grunt Enndolyn, wife of the baker Falk, pushes through the crowd and grabs Rumple for a hug. Now _that's_ a surprise.

* * *

"Why you takin' so long?" Rulf wants to know. His question is slurred—it comes out more like _wuh yuh takin' slong?_ —because he's on his fourth tankard; he figures it's okay to get sloshed because he's paying out of his veterans' pension.

Bae, by contrast, sips delicately from his ale. This is his first taste of alcohol and he doesn't like it—he'd probably set the tankard down and order a goat's milk instead, except that would be rude.

"After I turn eighteen I can join the army," he begins to explain, but he needn't continue.

Rulf nods sagely. "Money. Yeah. A married man's gotta think about his finan—finan—future." His statement is interrupted with belches. "I been thinkin' about gettin' married too. A little gal that works for the duke."

Fort snorts into his beer. "Little? She's six foot three."

"To us, that's little," Rulf guffaws.

"Aw, who'd wanna marry a one-armed harecop that smells like a cow and thinks like a tortoise?" the barkeeper mutters.

Rulf's fist, as big as the barkeeper's head, is offered in reply. "I might be one-armed, but this one arm can knock you clear to Avonlea."

"Aw, shut up." The barkeeper moves down the counter to other customers.

"Somebody's gotta open a new tavern in this town," Bae complains.

"Hey, lemme look at that drink he poured you." Fort snatches away Rumple's barely-tasted tankard, sniffs at the ale, then makes a noisy show of tasting it. "Yeah, like I thought. He watered yours down to about half of what he poured for us, 'cause he knows you won't know the difference."

"Or complain about it if you did," Rulf adds.

"Don't start something," Rumple warns. "This is a special occasion. Don't ruin it with a fight."

"Aw, hell, what good's a tavern night if you don't get one good fight out of it?" Rulf chuckles.

"'Cause you're my friend," Fort relents, "I won't start nothin', but I wish you would. People like him take advantage of you, Rum. I don't like to see it; you're a good guy what deserves better."

"It's. . . the way it's always been," Rumple answers in a low voice, desperate to change the subject, especially with his son here. "So, Bae, has Morraine decided when the wedding will be?"

"The day after my birthday." He grins. "The day after I'm inducted."

"Practical girl," Rumple approves. "I know she probably has some ideas for her wedding dress, but I'd like to make it, as my wedding gift."

"She'll like that. 'Raine's all thumbs when it comes to sewing. She'll like that a lot."

"I'd like to make something for you, too."

"I'll be wearing my uniform, but I'm going to need it taken in. The army tailor makes just one size: extra long. Then he hands you a pair of scissors and expects you to lop off the extra."

"I'll be glad to do that." There will be another gift, something Rumple has secreted away, stored all these years in a trunk at Gretchen's, but Rumple won't take it out until the day Bae announces the birth of his first child: it's the blanket that Rumple began weaving with his hand spinner while he was in the army hospital, recovering from his shattered ankle. A baby blanket.

"I appreciate it, Papa." He may be a soldier and the observer (if not fighter) of two battles, but Baelfire is not above hugging his father in public.

Rumple raises his tankard in the air and their friends do the same. Watered-down ale and insults aside, it's a great night and he's going to acknowledge it. "To the happy couple."

"Happy couple!" Rulf and Fort echo, gulping their beer.

"And to our friends" is Rumple's second toast.

"Good friends!" "Gotta have friends." "Aye, man's rich if he's got friends."

* * *

A pounding at the door drags Rumple from his dreams (luxuriously silky auburn curls being tossed over a creamy shoulder) and from his bed. His heart pounding in time to the knock, Rumple struggles to catch his breath—Bae? Is it Bae?—as he grabs his cane and manages to avoid stepping on the cat, who doesn't seem to hear the pounding. A groan from the other pallet, followed by snuffling and coughing (Bae had two full tankards last night) reassures Rumple that the pounding is _not_ a death announcement from the crown. Before he can yank on his trousers, the door jerks open and two bears sashay in—no, big men in fur coats, because there's a layer of new snow on the ground, as Rumple can see through the open door. The man in the lead bellows, "Rumplestiltskin! Baelfire!" as he pulls his hood back to reveal a wind-reddened face and bright eyes fringed with frosted lashes.

"Your Majesty!" Rumple turns equally red-faced, but for another reason: he is literally caught with his pants down. He doesn't know whether to bow first and then pull his pants up or vice versa. He tries for both.

With a yowl, Bae shoots out of his pallet, dragging the blanket along (the cat chases after it). He wraps himself in it to cover his longjohns. "Your Majesty!" His tongue sounds coated in wool.

The second man holds out his arms. "May I take your coat, sire?"

"Yeah, looks like we'll be here a while." Maurice lets the man take the bear-fur coat. Stamping his boots on the wood floor, the King slaps his arms. "Fine day for a ride, gentlemen. Brisk."

"Y-y-your Majesty, excuse our state of undress." Rumple's voice is muffled as he yanks on his tunic. "We were out rather late last night."

"Undress excused." Maurice rubs his nose with the back of his hand. "I come unannounced. Rude of me, that's what Her Majesty said, but this is too good to wait."

"Oh?" is all Rumple can manage. Like a clown he's standing there with the ties of his tunic in each hand. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach overtakes him as he's consumed by a possible explanation for news "too good to wait": Belle must be getting married.

Bae has the presence of mind to stir the embers and greet the second man: "Lieutenant Fendral! Good to see you, sir. Almost didn't recognize you under that grizzly."

Fendral chuckles and spreads Maurice's coat on the rocking chair so that it can dry. He drapes his own coat on a hook near the door. "We won't need 'em for long. We're headed south." So it's not an impending wedding for Belle, after all.

"Back to Bogamir," Maurice explains. From Bae's letters, Rumple knows that's in the mountainous south. "But we had a foot of snow last night in Avonlea, hence the coats."

"Cup of tea, sire?" Bae doesn't wait for an answer: he puts the kettle on and rinses out the two mugs for their guests and two bowls for himself and his father.

"Will you be seated, sire? You too, Lieutenant."

"Captain," Maurice corrects. "I promoted him last night."

"Congratulations, Fendral!" Bae cheers.

"Thanks, Bae."

Rumple has reason once again to be grateful for the small legal jobs he's been doing that have added honey and rosemary tea to their larder. He brings down their precious commodities, along with bread and jam, from the cupboard. "Did you breakfast yet?"

"We left in a rush. Threw some dried fruit and jerky in a bag and off we went." Maurice plops down on the bench at the dining table. "We'd be glad of a little something."

Following long years of practice, Rumple and Bae assume their individual cooking duties, putting on a pot of oatmeal, some eggs and bacon. "You were saying, sire, about Bogamir?" Bae prompts.

"Aye." Stretching out his long legs, the King groans and rubs his knee. "The cold gets into a man's bones. Anyway, Bogamir. As you know, Rumple, Fendral here and your son led a squad down to Bogamir to scout battle locations. Found 'em."

"A good many canyons perfect for our purposes," Fendral adds.

"Now Darain's got a fightin' herd of ogre rounded up and pointed south. It's their biggest herd." Rumple wonders why the King has chosen that term for the group of ogres: wouldn't _squad_ or _platoon_ be more accurate? "When I say 'biggest,' I don't just mean in number. These are prime fighters: on average, a full foot taller than the typical ogre. We got most of the herds cleared out of the north; we think they're throwing their best at us in a final attempt at victory." Maurice takes a swig from the steaming mug Bae sets before him; he's oblivious to his burnt tongue. "Gentlemen, it may be too soon to declare an end to this war, but—that declaration may not be far off."

Bae hoots, fist pumping the air, and Maurice chuckles. Rumple's never known a time when the kingdom wasn't at war, but with a wedding in the works, he's eager to experience peace—and a little prosperity.

"We're headed down there now to help Darain." Maurice licks the honey from his spoon. "We think it'll go quickly—the actual fighting, that is. Treaty negotiations, now, that's another thing. That's where you come in, Rumple. If you're willing and able."

His knees buckling, Rumple dares to sit down at the table, though his monarch hasn't invited him to. "Me, sire? How can I help?"

"I'd like for you to come along. Help us figure out how to communicate with them. We can't negotiate when we can't communicate."

Rumple swallows hard. "Uh. . . .No man has ever communicated with an ogre. Or vice versa. As far as we know."

"You'll be the first, just like you were the first to figure out about their hearing range." Maurice leans forward to peer at Rumple, who avoids his gaze. "Apart from Belle, you know more about ogres than anyone in the kingdom. We need you, Rumple. Chasing them out is one thing, but keeping them out is another. There's a call among the nobles to pursue the ogres out of the kingdom. Chase 'em down and kill every last one of them. There's some merit to the idea, I have to admit."

"This is the third Ogre War," Rumple observes. "Each time, regardless of who's won, the ogres reemerge."

"A treaty is our last measure before we pursue a slash-and-burn strategy. We don't know if we can broker a deal: we don't even know if they're smart enough to understand the concept, let alone keep any promises. But we have to try. It's the right thing to do." Maurice leans back in his chair, welcoming the plate of bacon and eggs Bae offers. "Gods help us if we give up our decency for a killing spree."

"Besides, we've seen what ogres can do when they're cornered. The cost of a never-ending ogre hunt will destroy us, in terms of life as well as taxes," Fendral explains.

"That's not the legacy I want to leave my daughter." Maurice picks at the eggs, suddenly not hungry. "Not how I want my people to remember me, the way they remember the Bloody King."

"She can be a wonderful ruler," Rumple agrees, "but she must inherit a kingdom worth inheriting."

"We are men, not beasts. We must conduct ourselves humanely in victory as well as in loss," Maurice surmises. "Rumplestiltskin, come and help us. I'll give you a battlefield commission and any aid you need—starting with your son."

"Lieutenant Rumplestiltskin," Bae grins, serving plates to Fendral and his father.

"I, ah," Rumple searches his thoughts. "I don't like this any more than you will, sire, but I need Belle too. It's her, not me, who knows more about ogres than anyone in the kingdom."

"We'll have a runner. Send messages back and forth," Maurice relents that far. "The Duke of Bogamir has a castle on the border, some fifty miles from the canyon we intend to use. We'll headquarter Belle there, if she's willing. And I'm sure she will be."

"A relay of riders could cover that distance in half a day," Fendral points out.

"Her mother will throw a fit, but if Belle's going to command troops, I suppose she should have some preparation for it."

"You'd have to lock her up in a convent to keep her away. Even then—"

Maurice snorts. "She's likely to punch out the nuns and run away."

Rumple's heart swells with pride for Belle, though he has no right to feel that way. He'll dream tonight not of luxurious auburn hair but of her soft hands. . . clenched in fists that fly in sanctimonious faces.

"Papa?" Bae is nudging him. "Are you going to accept? I'm going with them, regardless, but if you want to go, I'll pack your bag."

What can he say? He feels his own fists forming at the thought of his son and his. . .his. . .Belle in a danger zone while he's at home sitting by the fireside with his cat. He's neither swordsman or archer, but he figures he can distract any ogres that might threaten a boy or a princess. "Pack the bag, Bae."


	22. That's How I'd Feel about it Too

When Rumple and Bae emerge, bags in hand, from their tiny home, it's to a crowd of about thirty people gathered on the road and the edge of the lawn, a respectful distance from the royal carriage, yet close enough for everyone to catch a good look of His Majesty. A generation from now, these people will remember this moment with such clarity that they'll be able to imitate the King's walk (he favors his right foot just a little; the public assumes this is from an injury gained in battle or hunting, but Bae knows the secret: the King has bunions) or the sound of his voice (a nasal baritone with a rather round accent) or the gray in his beard. A generation from now, when they speak of this moment, it will still be with a sense of puzzlement as to how in the seven levels of hell did the King and his family choose to befriend the county coward—though, a generation from now, there will be even odder occurrences to discuss concerning the royals and their relationship with the spinner.

But they emerge (improper, some whisper; the spinner and his brat come out first, walking _ahead_ of the King-but the simple truth of that faux pas is that the King advised them to go on out to the carriage and give their bags to the driver while His Majesty writes a note to Belle and polishes off the last of the oatmeal). As they cross the lawn, Morraine shoves some spectators out of her path and runs up to Bae, throws him off balance as she throws her arms around his neck, and he hurriedly explains what's going on as his father tosses both bags up to the driver, who secures them under his box. Long-legged Lucas catches up to Rumple in a few strides as Rumple readies the step for the passengers' use.

"'Raine and me'll tend the lambs for you while you're gone." Lucas doesn't ask how long that might be; he's fought in a battle or two, so he knows how unpredictable warfare can be—and how risky. His forehead is lined with nervous wrinkles.

"Say goodbye to Fort and Rulf for me." Rumple's voice looses strength with each passing word. "And would you chop up some meat for the cat every morning."

"Of course." Lucas is aware that Midnight's age is impeding her hunting abilities.

Gretchen, having taken her turn hugging Bae, trots up. "We'll be praying to the gods for you and Bae's safe and quick return." Then as he thanks her, she does something improper: she leans into him and kisses his cheek.

A murmur ripples across the crowd and the spectators part like waves of wheat as the cottage door bangs shut and the King and the soldier strut forward. Maurice dips his head and murmurs good morning as he passes through; he's always been awkward in public appearances, as he'll one day confess to Rumple, but on days like today, his graciousness is bolstered by his sense of purpose. He's riding on to fulfill the responsibility that comes most naturally to him and to become the hero he's always dreamed of being. His confident excitement rolls off him like rays from the sun. Through his open bearskin coat the spectators catch glimpses of His Majesty's clothes, and they're perhaps a bit disappointed: no ermine or gold, he's wearing a red uniform that matches his guardsman's.

He also has a steaming mug in one brawny paw and a chunk of honey-slathered bread in the other. "Who has a horse?" he calls out, shifting the bread to sit atop the mug. As an eager young man volunteers, the King reaches into his coat and withdraws the note. "Deliver this to Her Highness as quickly as you can—without laming your horse. You will be paid handsomely when the letter is delivered."

The boy bows. "No pay required, sire. My honor."

"Good lad." Maurice hands the mug to his captain before climbing aboard the carriage; the captain follows; then Bae. With a last glance back at his home, anxiousness and reluctance unhidden in his expression, Rumple mounts the step and the driver latches the door.

"Bae!" Morraine clasps her hand to her mouth as the driver jumps up into his box.

Bae's face appears in the tiny window above the door and he can be heard shouting, "I'll write to you, as often as I can!"

She runs along beside the carriage when the driver shakes the reins. "I love you, Bae!"

"I love you, 'Raine!"

She's a strong young woman and she doesn't care that it's unseemly for her to run. Her skirts hitched up, she chases the carriage until it's come to the crossroads. Panting, she halts, waving her arm wildly.

In her first letter to Bae, which comes to his possession a month later, she describes spending that first night in Rumple's cottage, sitting in the rocking chair with Bae's blanket across her lap to keep her warm and Midnight stretched across her knees to keep her from crying. She understands, she assures him, that this is only the beginning. As a military wife, she will have many such nights, and she promises him she won't cry.

* * *

Rumple doesn't know what to say. Bae is all wide eyes and open ears as Fendral and Maurice, seated across from him, spread a map across their laps and discuss the latest news from the battlefield. Bae occasionally chips in with information; he knows the Bogamir territory pretty well now and as the talk thickens, he's able to put aside the fact that it's his monarch he's addressing. After all, Fendral, by whose side Bae has worked for four years now, is not intimated by His Majesty, and Bae's always taken his cues from his military superiors.

But Rumple doesn't know what to say. It's not so much that he's riding in the royal carriage, knee bumping into knee across from the King—it's that he's riding in a carriage with the man whose daughter he has declined to court. Even if they weren't riding off to war, the situation would be awkward.

But the King seems to have put the personal issues aside, as well he should, for lives are dependent upon the decisions that are made now. He starts to ask questions about ogres, and Rumple answers, hesitantly at first, worried that a wrong word might offend, but gradually he is drawn in to the conversation. He's discovering he has a knack for teaching, and in a pause in the planning he allows himself one tiny fantasy: himself and Belle, side by side in her school, moving easily down the aisles as they tutor the children, and occasionally casting quick glances at each other over the bent heads, and sharing proud smiles.

"We know nothing about their social structures," Fendral interrupts Rumple's daydream. "They seem to have leaders, but do they have rank? Families? Friends?"

And Rumple is snapped back into the present. As the carriage rocks and rumbles, he relates all that known of ogres' social lives—too bloody little. For all the time and energy that Aramore's scientists have devoted to studying sheep and crows, why have they, in their prejudice, neglected a creature three times the size of the average man?

Talking as the horses' hooves kick up road dust makes throats dry, and before long, Maurice is taking a swig from a waterskin—and then passing it over to Rumple. Their eyes meet over the hand-off, but Rumple can't read the emotion behind Maurice's expression. Does he hate Rumple for disappointing Belle? Or is he relieved that Belle has reason to move on to another suitor? Or, in the months that have passed since Rumple's visit to Avonlea, has Maurice forgotten about the unborn romance?

"Drink your fill, gentlemen," Maurice advises. "We have plenty."

Rumple drinks from the waterskin, then shares it with Fendral, who shares it with Bae, and the conversation resumes.

They shelter in a barn overnight, being too far from the nearest village to take their respite in an inn. Maurice doesn't identify himself; when he asks the farmer for permission, he claims to be a soldier, accompanied by other soldiers on their way to battle. In the darkness, the farmer doesn't see the royal insignia on the carriage, so he doesn't come outside to greet his guests; he just waves his hand toward the well. "Help yourself to water. You can corral your horses with mine." He starts to close the door in their faces, but pauses to add, "Don't start any fires. I can't afford to lose that barn."

"Certainly not, sir." As Maurice turns away, Rumple catches a twinkle in his eyes.

They make their beds in hay and pass around a sack of biscuits, apples and sausages. With cold well water, it's a welcome meal, and they go to bed immediately, intending to be back on the road at dawn. "This is exciting, Papa," Bae comments as he snuggles into the hay. "The Stiltskin men fighting side by side."

"Side by side," Rumple echoes weakly.

Sleepless, Rumple forces himself not to disturb his companions by tossing and turning, but he soon realizes any noise he might make will go unheard over Maurice's snores. He would find this amusing if it weren't for ogres' sensitive hearing. He sets his mind to work on cures for snoring; if he doesn't find one, they're going to have to make sure Maurice never falls asleep within a mile of an ogre.

As the sky shifts from black to gray, the King snores on but Rumple can detect a change in the breathing of his other three companions. Soon they'll be stirring, and before the sun has risen they'll harness the horses and after a bellyful of cold biscuits and jerky, they'll climb back into the carriage. Rumple wonders about Maurice, who seems to thrive in this element, despite the absence of castle comforts. Wondering about Maurice makes him wonder about Belle: if she had her way, she would be here too. He knows her well enough to be certain of that; she may share her mother's gentle soul but she has her father's warrior heart. It's because he knows that about her that he dared to request her involvement in this expedition, though he agrees completely that she must be kept safe at a distance from the fighting—not because she's a woman, for about thirty percent of the archers and ten percent of the medics are women, and by all reports they fight as gamely and effectively as their male counterparts. Rumple's feeling that Belle must remain apart from the action is (mostly) due to her position as heir apparent. If her father, who feels he must stand alongside his generals in the final battle and be on hand to treat for peace, should fall, the heir must immediately assume the throne; for the sake of the nation, there must be no break in leadership.

At least, that's what Rumple tells himself: it's his patriotism that makes him agree with Maurice that Belle is not to join them on the battlefield.

A cow's deep moo signals Bae, who sits bolt upright, immediately fully awake. Rumple enjoys watching him work: he's so far different from the grumbling sleepyhead he is at home. "Morning, Lieutenant Papa," he whispers as he yanks on his coat and crawls out of the hay. He scrambles, quietly, down the ladder to the barn floor, and when he returns he's hauling a bucket of ice-filmed water. He cracks the ice to fill their waterskins, then he rouses Fendral, who takes advantage of the water to wash up, apparently undisturbed by the cold biting against his skin. Rumple follows suit, though he shivers; in the years before Midnight changed their lives, he and Bae went through many a winter morning fireless, but a decade has passed since then; he now can afford firewood. The luxury has softened him, he's embarrassed to admit.

During the washing up, the driver, unconcerned with cleanliness, leaves the loft to tend to his horses. By the time Fendral rouses the King, the team is hitched and waiting, stamping their feet in the snow. Clouds of breath issue from their dripping nostrils. Half-asleep, Maurice grunts a greeting to them and pats their necks before climbing into the carriage. Once the vehicle lurches forward, he dozes, his head resting against the carriage wall. Rumple dares to look him directly in the face then. In just two brief meetings, Rumple feels he's come to know the plain-spoken King pretty well. A two-way respect has developed, Rumple for the man beneath the bear coat, and the King for the inventive spinner. It's a respect that began when each man recognized in the other a father devoted to his child, and grew as each man came to perceive the unlikely strengths of the other. A lifetime of dodging bullies has made Rumple perceptive about people, and so he's confident of his interpretation of the relationship between himself and the King. But, though the King respects the spinner, that doesn't answer the question of whether Maurice could ever _like_ Rumple. As Rumple begins to nod off too under the rhythmic rocking of the carriage, he's quite sure that once Maurice see him in battle—quaking and fainting, if not outright running away—any warm feeling the King may feel now for Rumple will be shattered.

It's probably for the best. The King will then put a quick end to any daydreams about Rumple Belle might still harbor.

* * *

Eudes, Duke of Bogamir, rides out with some of his own home guard to greet the royal carriage as it enters the duchy. The condition of their horses and their clothes makes it obvious that this is a poor land, having been ravaged by ogres longer than any other; Maurice's dismay shows as he scans the faces of Eudes' guards—all of them over fifty years of age. But as he dismounts, bows deeply with a sweep of his arm, and greets the King in a hardy voice, Eudes seems to think his duchy certainly capable of providing everything necessary for a royal visit. One might think, as he and Maurice walk side by side to the castle, that this is just a social call, as Eudes boasts of the fat pheasants and sows that have been butchered for the feast that now awaits.

When they sit down to table, Maurice's group refrains from remarking upon the stringiness of the meat and the sourness of the wine. No one would rob the Duke and Duchess of their right to pretend to be rich. At least the beds are comfortable.

Over breakfast, Eudes promises to provide twenty guards for the battle. He will join in himself, though his weak eyesight makes him useless as a bowman; he can blow a whistle, though. He wouldn't miss this last battle for the world. The Duchess Gidie promises to take good care of Princess Belle when she arrives and keep her safe; even if she were not their heir apparent, her knowledge of ogres makes her important to the success of this venture.

The royal carriage and horses are left behind, being unsuitable for the battlefield. The Duke provides horses for his guests. Fendral and Maurice exchange a worried glance as Eudes and his guards mount up. "We'll need to get them proper mounts and weapons when we arrive," Maurice mutters.

"We could get there faster by walking," Fendral returns.

For his part, Rumple is secretly content with the nag he's given. He's in no hurry to arrive at Domin Canyon, where in a pincer move Generals Darain, Celvin and Carac are driving the last herd of ogres. When the creatures are trapped in the canyon, the attack will begin. When the party stops at a river for lunch, Rumple nearly collapses as he dismounts. Bae rescues him before he can fall. He blames his bad ankle and unpracticed horsemanship, but in truth, a good part of the weakness in his legs can be attributed to the weakness in his heart. His legs shake just as hard when, two hours later, they mount up again.

On the sad beasties they've been given, the ride to Domin Canyon takes two days. It's nightfall when they arrive at the southern rim, where Darain and his archers are camped. The campfires have been kept small, lest a wayward wind might carry their scent to the ogre herd hunkered down at the canyon floor. The men talk in hushed tones, for ogres, as Belle has warned the army, can hear sounds as far as a mile away. As soon as his boots touch ground, Maurice releases his horse to a squire and moves through the clusters of fighters, shaking hands with every one and wishing them luck. Bae goes to work immediately as well, assisting in tending the tired horses. Large dark structures loom over the north edge of the camp; Fendral explains that these are cages to hold any ogres taken captive; they've tipped some of their arrows with a potion that, tests have proven, will put a full-sized ogre to sleep for up to an hour. Rumple has doubts on both parts-that any ogres will be taken captive and that they can be held in a wood-and-iron cage. But he won't dash the ice water of doubt on the army's hopes; he merely stares at the structures, allowing Fendral to wander over to a fire to accept a mug of tea and hunker down to discuss plans.

Rumple lowers himself to the ground at the outer edge of the camp, where firelight won't flicker on his face. He draws his knees to his chest to warm himself. A faint snow is falling and it dampens his hair. He licks his lips as he watches the soldiers drink and eat, but he doesn't allow himself to ask for refreshment. It's safer if the others are unaware of the sort of man who's ridden into their midst.

Except Maurice won't let that be. After talking to every soldier, he's wound his way back to Rumple. Rumple attempts to clamber to his feet, but his ankle buckles and he lands ingloriously on his butt. With a deep sigh he gives up. Maurice pretends not to notice; he flops down too, next to Rumple. With a gesture he summons Bae, who comes running and bows. "Fetch us something to eat, lad, with my thanks." Bae bows and starts to run off, but Maurice halts him. "Oh, and find my lieutenant here a uniform. Size medium."

Bae's grin dances in the firelight. "Aye, sire. One officer's uniform, size medium."

"A _Home Guard_ uniform," Maurice insists.

Bae's grin is now as bright as the firelight. "Aye, sire!"

When Bae returns, he's accompanied by the squires Favian and Tristan, who bear plates and mugs of hot tea for the King and the new lieutenant; Bae himself carries a red uniform draped over his arm. He bows to his new superior. "Your uniform, sir. May I assist you in dressing? We can go into the officers' tent over there."

Rumple now manages to get to his feet, the pain chased away by the pride in his son's eyes. "Thank you, Squire."

"Wait a minute. Before you go, I got to commission you first." Maurice rubs his back as he stands. "This cold's settling into my bones." He accepts the mugs from Tristan, gives one to Rumple and downs the contents of the other in a gulp. Shivering, he admits, "I needed that. Go, lad, and fetch Captain Fendral." As Tristan takes off like a shot, Maurice informs Rumple, "I could knight you instead, but I thought you'd like this better."

"Yes, sire." Rumple can't help but beam. "Much better."

"That's how I'd feel about it too." When Fendral arrives, the King announces, "Captain, I want you to witness this, since the Lieutenant here's going to be under your command."

Fendral straightens his coat and stands tall for the ceremony. "Yes, sire."

"Rumplestiltskin of Ramsgate." Maurice proceeds formally. "In recognition of your contributions thus far to the war effort and your contributions to come, I hereby bestow upon you the rank of lieutenant in my Home Guard." He shakes Rumple's hand. "Glad to have you with us, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Fendral offers his hand too. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. You'll join the medical squad effective immediately."

"Let's eat. I'm starved." Maurice lowers himself to a flat boulder and Favian furnishes him with a filled plate. "You might want to eat too before you put on the uniform. It's been ten hours since lunch."

"If it's all the same, I'd like to put my uniform on first." Rumple is grinning at Bae. "With the squire's assistance."

Maurice cocks his head thoughtfully. "That's how I'd feel about it too."


	23. Fine Morning for a Battle

A tug on his shoulder and a voice in his ear urging "It's time" drag him out of his sleep stupor, but Bae has moved on before Rumple can pry an eye open. Around him the other inhabitants of the tent—the other officers—are stirring, grumbling, coughing in the cold, as the squires fetch them tea and fold up the blankets. When Rumple hauls himself from the tent the first sight to greet him is the silhouette of a bear standing on its hind legs beside a campfire, framed by the pale pink dawn. "Your Majesty." Rumple's tongue is slow and thick today. Favian presses a mug into his stiff hands.

"Lieutenant." The King nods a greeting. "Won't snow today. Fine morning for battle."

Rumple suddenly has to relieve himself. He trots off to the tree line and hunkers down behind an oak. The uproar in his bowels embarrasses him, but from the sounds around him, he realizes he's not the only soldier with a rebellious body.

When he returns to camp, everyone is up and finishing tea. The older soldiers are eating stale biscuits and speculating on what game might be left in the woods, now that ogres have been pushed through and into the canyon below. An archer examines the tip of an arrow. "Soon as this is over, I'm going hunting."

"Venison would be nice," another daydreams. "We haven't had fresh meat in three weeks."

"They have." The archer juts her chin toward the canyon. "That's 'cause they eat it raw."

"They eat their own. I saw it. When we chased 'em down, one of the females fell and broke her leg. The rest were on her before she'd had time to die."

"Seen a village they'd torn through. Not a living thing left. Just bones. Found two carcasses rotting in the heat: a old woman clutching a baby to her chest. The ogres had gnawed on them too."

"They're a scourge, an abomination to life. This isn't just a war: it's a holy war."

The conversation strikes Rumple as identical to one he'd heard eighteen years ago at another winter camp. At the time he'd been shocked by it, but he understands now the necessity for gruesome talk: it's a preparation for war, as essential as stringing bows and sharpening swords and spears. It steels the soldiers' hearts against the killing to come.

The squires rush about, collecting the mugs and instructing the soldiers to report to their commanders. Soldiers cluster in their assigned platoons. The Chief Medic informs his new recruits, Rumple and Eudes, that during the battle, their platoon's job is to blow the whistles, but as soon as the battle concludes, they're to tend the wounded. "Does that include the wounded ogres?" Rumple asks. Blood drains from his face as the Chief answers, "General Darain wants us to take as many captives as possible, for potential bargaining chips. Let the fighters take 'em, but we'll bandage 'em—if we can."

Rumple feels a bit light-headed as the Chief issues him a first aid pack. With a jerk of his thumb, the Chief summons a subordinate to provide Rumple and the Duke with a crash course in first aid—human first aid only, since, as the medic admits, no one knows anything about ogre health.

Head count is taken, then Darain, as senior officer, addresses the entire camp. He's been through more battles than Rumple has baskets of wool. His voice is calm, confident, reassuring, but Rumple suspects that's a front: no battle ever goes as planned. All creatures, no matter their level of intelligence, become unpredictable when fighting for their lives. Darain issues his commands, not because anyone is uninformed—everyone here has known from the beginning what's supposed to happen today—but because laying out the plans so calmly makes them sound logical and therefore controllable. None of these men and women is inexperienced though: they all know war isn't logical.

Then the King speaks, reminding them why this work must be done, for family and friends and farm: he knows that in the last minutes, no soldier thinks of ideals and principles. Side by side, Rumple and Bae exchange a last hopeful smile. "Good luck, Lieutenant Papa." Bae winks before he and the other squires fade back into the woods to keep the horses quiet and keep themselves out of harm's way. Whatever happens today, someone will live to make the report. Rumple casts his gaze to the woods. Bae will live. That's what matters.

A priest finishes the speech making with a prayer, calling on the gods to bless their bows, make the arrows fly true. Rumple finds the benediction bizarre, but some of his fellow guardsmen are kneeling in the trampled snow, heads bent and eyes closed in respect for the prayer.

Then it's time.

The archers, spearmen and swordsmen edge forward along the rim of the canyon. Below, dark hulking forms stir in cold sleep. On the north rim, a silent flag rises, a signal of readiness; flags on the west and east rims answer. A newly recruited private, just turned eighteen last week, takes position beside the King and Darain and thrusts the battalion's green colors into the clearing sky. Rumple and the other appointed whistleblowers set their whistles between their lips. A nod from Darain and the flagger slashes his banner through the air, and Rumple forces the full strength of his breath through the thin metal tube. He can't hear the sound it makes—his hearing hasn't the necessary range—but even if he could, shouts of soldiers charging down the rocky slopes and the protesting roar of the creatures down below would drown out a whistle call. Still, Rumple blows for all he's worth; he has complete faith in the science of the whistle. It's the only thing that makes sense right now as the ogres groan, growl, scream and scatter in every direction, their bare feet pounding the earth like thunder. Boulders are knocked loose, some of them striking flesh, as the monsters flee. Rumple sucks in another breath and blows til he's dizzy, then he pants and watches in amazement as sunlight bounces off silver and blood flies. Their blood is red, Rumple observes, and this saddens him. Shrieks—the ogres' shrieks are as high-pitched as the humans' and the sounds are indistinguishable—assault Rumple's ears as he blows and blows again.

He catches sight of a female scooping up an infant, crushing it against her pendant breasts and stumbling over slippery rock as she seeks an escape. The female—the mother—runs directly into a spear. She drops the baby as an archer emerges beside the spearman. Rumple looks away.

His sight falls upon another female, gathering two adolescents to her side. She spins in a vain attempt to set herself between the youngsters and the archers. A gray-haired male bellows and rushes to her rescue, taking an arrow in the eye, but his sacrifice is pointless: archers and swordsmen finish off the female and as he dies, the male falls onto one of the children, crushing it. Rumple wonders if these were a family or just part of the herd; regardless of the bloodlines, ogres, he concludes, have some of the same virtues as humans.

Still blowing the whistle, he looks around for Maurice to make certain the King is unharmed. He finds His Majesty has breeched the whistle line and has taken up a stand several yards into the canyon. His sword raised, it's obvious he longs to join the battle, but he has to place his kingdom above glory. Still, he is offering himself as the single line of defense for the whistleblowers, should any ogres make it up the canyon wall. Rumple commits the sight to memory, just as he does every observation he can make of the ogres. He will share it all in a letter to Belle.

It goes on, the shrieks and shouts, the fallen bodies, the torn limbs. Men and women he shared tea with this morning collapse; their comrades are not always successful in pulling the injured to safety. Even in the midst of chaos, some of the larger ogres take time to feast on fallen soldiers.

The sun is directly overhead when the last of the shouting fades away. Rumple can hear sobs now, and groans, all of it human. Except for two escapees, the invading ogres have been exterminated. The scourge is over.

A cheer rises and bounces off he canyon walls. Rumple recognizes the voice that led it: Maurice is scrambling down to the canyon floor. Rumple lets his whistle fall on its cord and come to rest on his chest. Exhausted, he begins to turn to the woods to find Bae, but he knows Bae doesn't need him: down there, other soldiers do. He joins his fellow whistleblowers in gathering medical supplies and easing their way to the floor.

His foot slips on a patch of snow as he nears the bottom. When he rests against an outcropping to catch his breath, he hears a rustling, then a muffled cry. "Hang on, soldier," he urges. "I'm coming." He reaches for his water skin. "Thirsty?" Rumple comes around the boulder with a reassuring smile and outstretched hand. "I have med—"

He finds himself face to face with an ogre. A young, weeping ogre.


	24. Babysitting

The odor nearly knocks Rumple off his army boots. The first thing he notices is that the creature has wet its pants—the second thing he notices is that he has, too. He can see the stain spreading across the ogre's ragged trousers; he raises his eyes—the creature is a head taller than he is—past a stained burlap tunic to a quivering chin to a flat nose with flaring nostrils to soot-stained cheeks to a round, bald head. . . to large round blue eyes.

Later, he'll reflect that if the eyes had been another color, or narrow and squinty, he would have spun and run, as best he could in the snow and the rocks, with his ill-fitting boots and his aching ankle. And he would have expected to be grabbed, crushed, bashed against the rocks and torn asunder for a hearty meal. Except when the ogre peels its lips back in a snarl, he sees it has only two teeth, on the bottom jaw, and he suspects it's not yet capable of tearing flesh from bone. With a hasty glance about at the strewn bodies, he realizes this ogre is barely a third the size of average: a child. And then there are those sky blue eyes. Before he can stop himself, his left hand rises, palm up, and extends itself as if to touch the leathery cheek.

The ogre quivers.

He can't stop himself. Some instinct drives him, as a father who sees a frightened baby in need of care; for a second, the parental spirit in his soul demands he protect this child, regardless of its size, species or smell. Slowly, so as not to startle, he releases the pouch from his shoulder, withdraws from it his waterskin, uncaps the skin and offers it. The ogre sniffs at the waterskin dutifully, licks its lips, but makes no move, so Rumple brings the waterskin to his mouth and drinks, demonstrating. When he offers the skin again the ogre merely cocks its head, turning its right ear toward Rumple.

"Oh," Rumple says softly, remembering ogres' blindness. He stretches the waterskin out as far toward the ogre's nose as his arm will go, until the creature catches on and snatches the canteen away.

The ogre tosses its contents back in a single gulp. Of course it's not enough for such a large creature; Rumple will have to find more water. He scans the creature's body for injuries but finds none apparent, thankfully: he knows nothing about the effects of human medicines on ogre babies. "We'll have to find you clean clothes," he says softly. "And food." He shudders as the thought strikes him: to this beast, Rumple would be food—well, not until its teeth come in.

"I'm a sentimental fool."

He knows what he's supposed to do: in his pouch is a mirror to be used for signaling. By angling it, he can catch sunbeams and reflect them back as flickers of light against the sky. He knows only one signal- long flash-flicker-long flash—but that's enough to summon help.

Help of the fighting kind, archers and swordsmen. Just the kind of help he'd want against an ogre, but not the kind he wants against a child. He'd rather have Fendral here, who'd ask questions first before shooting, but the only way to summon the Captain is by shouting—a very stupid idea in the presence of a nervous ogre. Or, gods help him, he'd rather have Belle here, so they could use their combined knowledge of the species to figure out together what to do.

He needs to buy time to think. He's a clever and inventive man, but not quick-witted like Belle. He reaches into his pouch for a small packet of food meant to provide some nourishment for wounded soldiers. There's a half-loaf of bread, some apples and a hunk of cheese, enough to make a meal for a man, but barely a swallow for an ogre, as he finds out when he offers the bread in an open palm. He doesn't even know if ogres will eat processed food, since they live in the wild and eat raw.

He finds out in an instant they do. Like any hungry child, this ogre will apparently consume anything in a gulp. Licking its chops, the ogre sniffs at his hands in obvious hope of more. He takes a step backwards, least the beast bite his fingers off. The ogre shuffles forward a step.

Oh. He takes another step back, this time waving the cheese under the ogre's nose. The creature inches forward, sniffing and drooling. Another step from him, another step from the ogre. It's like leading a stray dog. When the ogre hesitates and tips its head in confusion, he lets it have a bit of cheese. Its long tongue, swishing against his palm to catch every crumb, is rough like a cat's, and like a cat it seems to understand the importance of not biting the hand that's feeding it.

It's a slow procession as he and the ogre make their way up the least sloping trail up to the lip of the canyon. He estimates the journey will take more than an hour; his food supply won't hold out then. He has to come up with another plan. The next time the ogre pauses, he whistles at her—for convenience, he's starting to think of the beast as a female—the same little whistle he used to use to summon Midnight. He walks away and she follows. He keeps whistling, switching to a cheerful tune—are ogres capable of feeling cheerful?—and walking sideways, watching her through his peripheral vision; reminding himself that being blind, she won't be threatened by his staring, as another animal might. (Is that what she is, an animal? Or another class of being?)

She casts her head from side to side, taking in all the sounds around her, jerking and shuddering when she hears something that upsets her (half of what she reacts to, he can't hear at all). Periodically she whines deep in her throat and sniffs the wind—seeking her mother? Or would that be father? No one knows anything about the family structure of this species. And still she follows Rumple, accepting apples and cheese from him; the longer they walk, the closer her footsteps follow his. He realizes she's becoming dependent upon him. . .expecting him to protect her. . . .The realization twists his gut when he thinks what the archers or swordsmen might do to her. He has to make certain they don't get to her first.

An idea strikes him and he tries it out, just a little: he switches from whistling to singing, softly, but when she doesn't appear put off by it, he sings louder. His song doesn't rhyme or stay in rhythm, but it does carry a message: "Captain Fendral, come to me, this is Rumplestiltskin/Captain Fendral, come immediately, I have a prisoner following me/Captain Fendral, right away. . . ."

Walking and singing, walking and singing and occasionally feeding. One bat from her huge hand and she could knock his head off his shoulders. One stomp from her huge feet and she could crush his chest. "Captain Fendral, come to me, this is Rumplestiltskin/Captain Fendral, come quietly, don't scare off my prisoner. . . ."

It seems to take forever, but eventually, from behind a boulder, a voice answers him in song, "Rumplestiltskin, it's Fendral, and I can see your prisoner/I'm over here behind this rock so bring her over this way."

Rumple tries to keep walking, but the ogre startles at the new voice and freezes in her tracks.

"What do you intend to do?" Rumple sings back. He has to fight to keep his tone cheerful: "She's only a baby so don't shoot her."

"Sleeping potion's on my arrows, she'll only take a nap/We can get her in a cage and all of us will be safe."

Rumple stops and holds out his hands toward the ogre, temporarily forgetting she can't see. She hears him stop, though, and sniffs in his direction, hoping for an apple. "She's only a baby, that potion's too strong/Fendral, please don't shoot her."

"Rumplestiltskin, we have no choice/She will surely kill you/Bring her closer, we'll take a chance/I can hit her in the foot/Bring her over here."

The spinner isn't sure that an arrow shot in her foot will inject any less potion into her system. He's also not sure he can urge her any closer to that strange voice; she's already sniffing the air in that direction and growling, her lips pulling back to expose her two teeth. Rumple sings to her, begging her to calm down, and she whines at him. He has half a mind to turn her around and make her flee.

Behind him he hears a rustle, a thunk and a hiss, and he knows it's too late. He glances back to find Fendral standing, bow vibrating in his hands. "Oh, Fendral," Rumple moans, dropping into a crouch, his arms and his cane slung over his head for protection. A roar splits the air. Any second now he's going to feel those claws sink into his back or that hammy hand slash him into the rocks. He's a dead man and Fendral will be next and then every soul in the camp up there. He hears Fendral ready another arrow.

But there's no attack, just a thump, and the ground shakes. Rumple peeks out from beneath his arms. She's landed on her butt, clasping her injured foot with one hand and grasping the arrow with the other. She's sobbing, and when she's removed the arrow and tossed it aside, she struggles to get to her knees but slips and lands back on her butt. She cocks her head in his direction and holds out her hand, whimpering.

He curses. It's a stupid thing to do—he's worked around wounded animals, both wild and tame, plenty of times, so he knows better, but he crawls to her, just out of her reach. She sniffs at him and he jerks his head back in fear, but she's still crying.

From behind the boulder, Fendral hisses, "What are you doing?"

Slowly, pleading with her for patience, Rumple brings a bandage from his medical pack and pours whisky on it to moisten it. He edges forward on his knees, holding up the bandage, letting her sniff it—she opens her mouth as if to eat it, and he chuckles. He starts telling her a story about the day four-year-old Bae tried to ride a ram and got bit for his troubles. As he applies the bandage to her wound, he describes the bandage he applied to Bae's wound, then he sings her the soothing song he sang to Bae. He ends with "I'm a bloody fool."

The ogre rocks herself back and forth, snuffling, her head cocked in Rumple's direction. She lets him wrap her foot—it takes every bandage in his pack. She seems to understand she shouldn't pick at the bandage. (Do the ogres have some sort of first aid? Do they soothe their crying children?) The two of them sit back on their haunches and listen/watch each other as the sleeping potion gradually takes affect and she stops crying and her blind eyes close. "You'll be all right. I promise," Rumple glares over his shoulder at Fendral, who's lowered his bow and is simply gawping. "I give you my word, I will protect you."

Her rocking stops, then her shoulders slump, then she slides onto her side and just before she passes into sleep, he strokes her arm, like he used to do for Bae. Then she does something six-year-old Bae used to do, and it wrenches his heart: she pops her thumb in her mouth and sucks on it.

The battle may be over, but by orders of Darain, the celebrating will have to wait. Grumbling, the warriors and whistleblowers are sent out with tools and sleds to drag the dead ogres into the center of the canyon. The dead and wounded humans are loaded into wagons to be taken back to their villages; the winter will slow the decay of the bodies, for which Maurice expresses gratitude. He knows firsthand how important it is to a family to be able to say goodbye by means of a funeral. The ogre bodies are stacked and burned; to bury them in the rock would be impossible.

Reports come in from all the platoons. There are no other prisoners, though there were two escapees. Darain sets guards, just in case; General Celvin believes that the ogres possess sufficient intelligence to "know when they're licked" but Carac claims that revenge means more to them than their own lives. Of the humans, eighteen of the twenty from Bogamir will return home on stretchers; a rider is being sent ahead to warn the castle so that the Duchess and Belle can prepare rooms and remedies. The Home Guard has suffered two losses, for whom Bae and the other squires grieve; Favian will return to Avonlea without a master. He'll be given the choice of being reassigned or mustering out, and right now, his grief is so heavy he's expected to go home and join his uncle's carpentry business. When word goes round that as soon as all the burials have been attended to and the wounded are stabilized, the three generals will take their troops home, cheers are slow to come. "I've seen this over and over," a battle-weary major mutters into his coffee. Freshly washed and dressed in a clean uniform, Rumple, seated beside him at the campfire and poking at a plate of meatless chili, isn't sure if the major is addressing him or just talking to himself. "It never gets easier."

"Will they get over it?"

"They'll pretend they have, as soon as they reach their home cities. They'll celebrate and be celebrated. They'll tell their stories—some of them will; others will refuse to talk about it—and they'll pick up their pension packets once a month, and they'll try to focus on their farms or their businesses and their families, but sometimes it'll just hit 'em. Middle of the night, or middle of dinner, or when they're drinking with their buddies or going to church with their kids. It'll just hit 'em." He doesn't explain what _it_ is; Rumple has experienced _it_ too.

He finishes the chili, though he can't taste it; his body needs the nourishment and will need sleep soon. But before he can crawl into the officers' tent, Bae comes running. "Where do you get all that energy, son?" Rumple muses.

"Oh, I'll crash tonight, no doubt about it," Bae confesses. "But the ogre's awake. Thought you'd want to see it before you turn in."

He grabs his cane and lets Bae help him to stand. Limping towards the north edge of the camp, he catches his frosty breath to ask, "What're they doing do her?"

Bae peers at him oddly. "Her? How do you know it's a her?"

"I don't. Just guessing."

"Wouldn't you rather know what she's doing to them?"

"Both. Both matter."

"She's just sitting in the middle of the cage, doing nothing. Still kind of sleepy, I guess."

"Lucky that potion didn't kill her. It's meant to take down a full-grown male, three times her size," he complains. He has to pause a moment and lean on his cane—until Bae slides an arm under his shoulders and allows him to lean on him.

"Remember, Papa, she might be a baby, but she's still capable of ripping any one of us apart."

"What are they doing to her?" He knows that an entire platoon has moved their tents to the north edge and ten solders at a time are standing guard, some with sleeping potion-tipped arrows, some with fairy-blessed arrows poised at the ogre's eyes (blue eyes, like a baby's, or like Belle's).

As he rounds the bend he can see the cage, with its ten poised guards. The ogre has clambered to her feet—she's listing to the left, keeping her weight off her wounded foot, and in answer his ankle nearly gives out in a stab of sudden pain. "You'll get used to it, and then it will heal," he says softly, approaching the cage.

"What will heal?" Bae asks, assuming his father was addressing him.

There are grumbles as he pushes through the guards and walks right up to the bars of the cage, but he hears someone say, "That's Stiltskin," and the identification is sufficient for the soldiers to let him pass. As he wraps his hands around the freezing iron bars, someone else says, "Ogre expert."

"You need water and food."

Bae takes this comment as a command; he grabs one of the other squires and they hurry off to the cookfire. But one of the soldiers suggests the ogre will be more manageable if it's left unfed and unwatered. Weakened, it won't be as dangerous.

"If you think that, you're a fool," Rumple snaps at him. "You ever gone without food and water for an extended period of time? Makes you crazy, doesn't it?"

"Sure," another soldier agrees with the Ogre Expert. "It's like with a wild dog, Harry. Fill their belly and they're less vicious."

"Well, we shouldn't be wasting our precious resources on one of them."

"Shouldn't we?" A booming voice interrupts the argument and Maurice appears, though keeping well out of reach of the cage. "This little ogre is a blessing in disguise, gentlemen and ladies. It's going to lead us to its king, so we can negotiate an end to these bloody awful wars."

"What if it don't? What if they ain't smart enough to negotiate? We ain't even seen signs that they can talk."

"Well, _then_ we'll kill it," a soldier sneers. "And make a meal of it, like they do us. Right, Your Majesty?"

"We only kill it if we have to," Maurice answers grimly. "We can learn from it, and maybe it can learn from us. That's how wars end, people. Not with swords and poison arrows. Three ogre wars should be enough to make that obvious."

"Yes, Your Majesty," soldiers mumble. But Rumple suspects that some of these soldiers will look for opportunities to fabricate a "have to" situation. Whether it's revenge or fear, they'll want an excuse to kill the captive.

"I won't let that happen," he says softly to her, and she replies with a small whimper. "Someone bring her blankets."

"While you men and women are standing guard, you could make yourselves useful, observing this creature. Anything you observe—anything she does, any sounds she makes—see if any of it has any meaning. You never know what information might be useful," Maurice orders.

"How the hell—pardon, sire—how the heck are we supposed to know what something means? This is a monster, not a dog or a horse that can make sense."

"Observe the creature's actions and sounds and report it to the Lieutenant here."

"Her," Rumple corrects, his eyes fastened on the captive. Both his lack of eye contact with the king and his correction are rude; he should speak to his sovereign with courtesy, but etiquette seems to have slipped his mind. "It's a female, sire."

"Maybe we should give her a name," Bae suggests. He's panting as he drags a cart up to the cage; Favian is behind him with a second cart.

Someone snorts, but Rumple gives the suggestion serious thought. "She already has one. We just need to find out what it is."

"How do we get the water into the cage?" Favian ponders, for that's what he's brought, a keg. "If we open the lock she'll attack us."

"No it won't." Harry raises his bow, aiming an arrow at the ogre's right eye. "Go on, beastie, give me a reason. Just give me a reason."

"She won't attack," Maurice decides. "Look at her. She's shaking."

"I'll talk to her," Rumple promises, "keep her calm while one of you opens the lock. Then just roll the cart in. But uncork the keg first so she can drink from it." He begins to speak to the ogre as Favian obeys his command. He tells her a bedtime story that always worked for Bae; he ignores the snorts of derision and the sarcastic comments. "What, gonna sing her a lullaby next?" Harry sneers. Apparently Fendral has not revealed Rumple's method for luring the ogre in.

"Corporal Harry, unless you want latrine duty for the duration, you'll refrain from interfering with our expert's techniques."

"But sire, I'm a sergeant—"

"One more word and you're not."

Harry clamps his mouth and lowers his bow. But the other soldiers stand ready as the cage is unlocked and the two carts are pushed in. Just as quickly, the gate is shut and relocked.

"Worked," someone grunts. "She didn't move a hair."

"Bring my pallet here," Rumple asks Bae.

"You're going to sleep here, Papa? In the snow?"

"I think that's wise. Bring your father a double set of blankets." Maurice claps Rumple's shoulder. "And I'll bring him a pot of tea."

Eyebrows rise in the moonlight: the King will serve tea to a spinner. Even more surprising, when he does, he seats himself beside Rumple on the pallet and they talk quietly about ogres and treaties and the history of warfare until late into the night, as soldiers stand poised with bows. Every so often, the name Belle is mentioned, just as often by one man as by the other, but of course nothing personal is said. Finally the King rises, complaining of his cold bones, and heads off to bed.

Rumple draws his blankets about his shoulders, smiling a little as the ogre mirrors him. When he lies down, she lies down.

"Mind if I join you?" Bae appears, his pallet and blankets under his arms. He settles in; he doesn't need to wait for an answer. The last thing he says before he falls asleep is "I'm proud to be your kid, Lieutenant Papa."


	25. Clothes Make the Ogre

They're calling her "beast" and "monster" and "maneater." Oh, not all of them—not the King, who refers to her as "the ogre," or the generals, who refer to her as "the prisoner," and not Bae and Fendral, who have observed the species more closely than most humans and have mixed feelings about them, especially this one, which they recognize as barely more than an infant. But enough of the Home Guard speak of the ogre in terms that place her kind beneath all other living beings; they seem to think worms have more intelligence and decency—and right to live—than ogres. She hears them, of course, as they taunt her, and from the way she presses herself tight against the farthest bars of the cage, Rumple swears that she's capable of interpreting their tone if not their words. He has to remind himself that these soldiers have just cause for their anger—and that, in another year or so, when she has a full set of teeth and a fully developed digestive system, she really would become a maneater.

But for the present, he worries that some of the soldiers might try to act on their hatred. All would it would take would be a single arrow between her eyes, some night after Maurice had retired to his tent and Rumple and Bae had nodded off on their pallets at the side of her cage. He speaks to Maurice of his concerns, who, in the presence of the entire company, issues orders to Darain, Celvin and Carac that any soldier caught harming the prisoner in any way is to be court-martialed on the spot. Everyone knows, however, how quickly and silently an arrow can be shot. Some of these soldiers, Rumple realizes, will never overcome their prejudices, but perhaps a few can be turned. He understands how massive a challenge this will be, better than anyone. He's been dehumanized himself much of his life. He knows there are two ways he could go about discouraging her tormentors: fear—he can prod her to attempt to attack, so they can see just how powerful she is—and affection. The latter will be much more time consuming but much more effective. He can inspire positive feelings for her, if he can get them to see the ogre as a living being with a heart and a mind and a personality, not unlike the dogs that they've left behind at home, guarding their families and their homes, and the horses that have carried them safely in and out of battle. It's harder to hate a being you've come to know.

The first step is to give her a name. The name will de-objectify her. He reflects back to the names by which bullies have addressed him, Hobblefoot, Spindleshanks, and Triped, among the more colorful, but never his real name. To call him by his actual name, he came to understand, would be to humanize him, and humanizing a victim would make it harder to justify bullying him. So the ogre must have a name, if only a temporary one until they learn to speak to her and find out her real name.

The haters don't trust him—they call him "ogre lover" behind his back—but they have great affection for their young squires, so Rumple invites Favian, Tristan and Bae to come up with a name for her and to announce it at lunch. He can't force the soldiers to use the new name, but enough of them will, he believes, for it to catch on.

The second step is to clean her up, so the soldiers have fewer excuses for insulting her. As he watches her, he can see she will welcome a chance to wash and change her clothes; she plucks at them woefully, stained and torn and stiff from the dried urine and melted snow. It reminds him of Baby Bae, who, before he learned language, would strip off his dirty diapers and run around the yard naked, even in winter, too independent to cry for help as most babies would, and too proud to ignore his own filth. When the barrel of water was rolled into her cage last night, she scooped up handfuls of it and splashed her face and feet, and rolled up her pants as far as the knee so she could wash her legs. She grabbed the hem of her tunic—who sews the ogres' clothes, he wonders—and turning her back to the soldiers, started to lift the shirt as if to remove it, then stopped suddenly, hung her head and slumped to the ground, giving up on the bath. Why? Had modesty or the cold stopped her?

He wonders what the ogres use for soap and tooth powder. He wonders if ogres lick their newborns clean, like a cat or a sheep would, or do they prepare a warm bath and gently lower the kicking and giggling infant into the water, like a human would—like he had, so many times, until the sad day came that four-year-old Bae announced he was old enough now that he could bathe himself ("but don't go far, Papa," he pleaded, "'cause I might need you." "No, no, I'll never go far," Rumple had sworn.) He wonders if ogres tuck their children in at night and tell them bedtime stories to ward off nightmares of evil ogre-eating humans. He remembers every story he'd ever read to Bae from their tiny and limp book collection, and most of the stories he'd made up for Bae. He wonders if ogre papas give their little ones piggyback rides—he'd managed it with Bae, despite the walking stick, until Bae became too tall and heavy. He wonders if ogres kiss.

He wonders if any of the other soldiers, his comrades, wonder about any of these things. Some of them have wives and husbands and children at home; surely they must wonder about the life this ogre child lived until yesterday, until she became a caged object of ridicule and barely contained rage.

"Bring me my civilian clothes," he asks Bae. The lad's face falls and his question is written clearly on his face: Is Rumple quitting the military? Giving up and going home? "For her," he nods toward the cage. "She needs some clean clothes." With relief Bae scampers off. And yes, the clothes are clean: the squires see to that, gathering up the officers' dirty clothes and doing a wash every morning. The generals insist upon it, even in winter, as well as daily splash-ups, if not proper, full-body baths, because they know how important it is to physical and mental health. ("We may be warriors," Celvin likes to say, "but we will always conduct ourselves as gentlemen and ladies.")

Rumple isn't sure the clothes will fit the ogre. She's a bit taller than he is, but she's scrawny like him; when she started to lift her tunic, he could see her ribcage protruding. Starved, he thinks. He will order a gradual increase in her daily feedings, though it means extra work for the soldiers—but then, other than stand guard and scour the hills for game, they don't have much to do. Trackers have reported back the runaway ogres beat a direct path west, and there are no fresh signs of other ogres nearby. "Just wolves, hungry from the winter," an archer grumbles, "killing off our venison."

When the clothes arrive, he's presented with a new problem: he can't communicate his intention with the ogre. He remembers how he did it with Bae, before Bae could talk: he'd hold up an object and pronounce its name distinctly, over and over, and Bae would mimic him. "Shirt," he'd say, holding one up. He'd slip it over his head. "I'm putting the shirt on." "Dirt," Bae would fumble with the word; sometimes his thumb, stuck in his mouth, got in the way. "No, Bae, _shirt_. Say 'shirt.'" "Dirt." "No, _shirt_." Until Rumple gave up and switched to an easier word: "Pants, Bae. These are pants. Say 'pants.'" Even for words he could pronounce, Bae always caught on, right away, as did Morraine and all the babies in the village. Teaching the words for tangible objects and actions was simple enough, but Rumple never did figure how the babies went from understanding "shirt" to understanding "tell the truth" or "play fair" or "be considerate." Somehow they just absorbed it. But the village babies had the advantage of eyesight. How, Rumple fretted, does one teach a blind member of another species how to understand words?

"Bring me paper and ink," he asks Bae. "I must write to Belle." Communicating with her, even if just in writing, always clarifies his thoughts. He sets the clothes aside and picks up the pen Bae fetches him, and lowering himself carefully onto a flat boulder, he writes. The sunlight is blinding his eyes when, three pages later, he finally sets the pen down. He looks up again at the ogre. She's been "watching" him—try as he might, he can't perceive it any other way; she "watches" him through her ears—the entire time. He understands this. It's not just that she's imprinted upon him, as a lost lamb might; it's that he's her sole lifeline in a crowd of bullies, any one of which could slay her in three seconds, if he walked away. He has no doubt that, blind or not, child or not, she understands what these soldiers did to her herd—to her tribe, he corrects himself. If he is to chip away at the hatred, he must use human terms when he speaks to others about her.

Another realization hits him and chills him like a strong northern wind: he must show no fear of her. More: he must demonstrate that he trusts her. He swallows hard at that realization and he buys himself another minute as he writes it in his letter to Belle. If only she were here. . . .He stands, pretending he can hear her voice, encouraging and calming him as he walks forward, leaning extra heavily on his cane. If only she were standing beside him, her arm on his, their banter bouncing back and forth cheerfully, exchanging observations, debating what they mean, making plans. If only she were here, he could be brave for her. At least there is Bae, leaning on the bars and gazing into the cage as he approaches. Bae, then: Rumple can be brave for Bae. Slinging the clean clothes over his shoulder, he waves the leader of the guard over. "Unlock the cage."

"Why? It's not feeding time," she sputters. She has a strong southern accent and a broad, friendly face, but her kindness is only for humans. She's been among the most vocal advocates for killing the ogre—"executing the prisoner," she calls it, "before it can attack us."

"We need the carts, for when it is feeding time." He points to the two carts they'd shoved into the cage last night.

"I ain't—"

"No, corporal. I am."

Now two mouths drop open. "Sir—" "Papa—"

"Open the cage, then close it immediately behind me." With his eyes he tries to convey a plea to Bae: Support me in this, son. Help me be brave. And that makes him wonder how ogre parents convey unspoken messages to their children. Is there such a thing as tenderness and affection among the species?

Bae is the one who takes the key from the corporal's hip. "Yes, sir." He lifts his chin as he opens the lock. His eyes fasten on the ogre—the corporal snaps her fingers at her squad and they raise their bows—and he swings the cage door open. Rumple tightens his grip on his cane and limps inside. The door clangs shut behind him and for a moment, he feels trapped. Oh, but her nostrils flutter rapidly, drawing in his scent, and her body trembles, then shakes as he moves toward her, one slow, firm step at a time. She's crouched in a corner, her back to the bars, her knees pulled up to protect her chest. She's a baby, he reminds himself, practically toothless, and she can't digest meat, let alone tear it from the bone, and she recognizes him as her guardian in a confusing and dangerous world. As, almost, a parent.

He begins to sing to her. Behind him some of the soldiers guffaw. "That's it, Papa," Bae says quietly, as much to block out the derisive laughter as to encourage him. But there's a tenderness in Bae's voice because he recognizes the lullaby; it was his favorite, after Milah left.

The ogre lowers her knees. Her nostrils are still fluttering, but she's breathing more easily now. He keeps singing as he inches forward. He takes his clean tunic from his shoulder—its rough wool comforts him; he remembers clearly the day he spun it. She can't see him—he has such trouble remembering that—but he holds it out to her, sort of a flag of peace. He finishes the lullaby and starts it over. A small whimper escapes her but she stops shaking. When he is three feet from her he stops. She still stinks and though she's a baby still, the muscles of her arms are more impressive than any he's ever displayed himself. He can imagine Fort wanting to arm wrestle her—if not kill her, in revenge for her species taking Rulf's arm and Jarin's and Tarrin's lives.

Fort and Rulf would be proud of Rumple now. They'd raise a beer in his honor, if they knew what he was doing.

He stops singing and starts talking, the tunic outstretched. "Shirt. This is a shirt. Say 'shirt,' child. 'Shirt.'" She makes no sound, but her mouth stretches and gradually, the corners rise. "Oh my gods," he mutters. "You're smiling."

Ogres can smile. He wants to rush out of the cage, jump on a horse and gallop for Bogamir City to shout it to Belle. But that would be ridiculous, his analytic mind sneers. Just as ridiculous as thinking that a blind species would smile. Why would they, when they can't see each other's faces? But that's what she's doing.

Slowly, noisily, so he won't startle her, makes the last step toward her. He rubs the shirt against her arm so she can feel its texture, then presses it into her hand. Her long dirty fingernails (not quite fingernails, not quite claws) dig into it. He holds still just a moment, the stillness calming her, then he lets his hand drop away. She's holding the shirt now. Her fingertips rub against the fabric. Now it's his turn to smile: it's almost as if she's judging the quality of the weave. "Everybody's a critic," he says to her. "Don't judge my work until you can do better."

The tension drops out of her shoulders.

He dares to touch her elbow, lightly at first, but when she doesn't strike out or pull away, he touches her more firmly, pulling up. "Stand up, child. Let's get you dressed."

She doesn't react. She doesn't understand. He tugs at her more insistently. Her skin is rough and thick. Those muscles are powerful. She could pick him up and toss him against the bars. But she won't; he's sure of that. He keeps talking, explaining what he wants.

At last she catches on and scrambles to her feet. He takes a step backward, giving her space. When's she steady, he tugs at the hem of her tunic. "Off, let's take it off, put on this clean shirt. You'll feel much better."

It's a slow go, whether it's her not understanding him or her modesty, but an hour later, he's got in clean clothes and he's tossed hers into a cart, to be washed. She will feel a little more secure when she can have her own clothes back.

He remembers Bae's security toy, a stuffed lamb that Rumple had made for him; it had comforted him after Milah left, and even before. He wonders if ogre children have toys. He's worn out and sweating by the time his former trousers are rope-belted to her hips.

But she's smiling. Definitely smiling.

Singing to her, he takes a few steps backwards, then turns away. His back is to her now; she could easily strike him. Looking out of the cage, he sees the guards nock arrows. He shakes his head, dismissing them, and leaning on his cane—he's so tired now—his bad foot dragging, he makes his way out. Bae dashes in to grab one of the carts, and Tristan, taking courage from the Stiltskin examples, follows suit. The corporal locks the door. The guards murmur, some of them complaining at the unnecessary risk, a few expressing amazement, as Rumple passes through. He wants to be away from them, he needs to be alone to sort out the feelings that threaten to overrun him, so he picks up his ink and his letter and make his way to the officers' tent. He needs to write about this experience to Belle—she can help him sort out the next steps—but his hands are shaking. He sits down at the generals' makeshift table and buries his face in his hands.

* * *

"Lieutenant."

He must have fallen asleep.

"Rumplestiltskin." A deep voice slices through the remnants of his dream (himself at a wheel, spinning thread that will become a tunic for himself and a toy for Bae and a wedding gown for Belle. Spinning, so placidly, as his son plays on the rug and Belle stirs the stew.)

"Son." A heavy hand squeezes his shoulder. He straightens, dropping his hands away from his face and blinking in the dim light of the tent.

He looks over his shoulder. "Oh! Your Majesty." He searches for his cane so he can stand in the presence of his king, but Maurice shakes his head and pats Rumple's shoulder.

"Don't get up. We don't stand on ceremony much here." Maurice seats himself in a chair across from Rumple. "What you did just then—I didn't see it; I was plotting with the generals, but I was told. Remarkable, lad. I don't know if I have the guts to do something like that. Remarkable."

"Or foolish, that's what some of the guardsmen say."

Maurice shrugs. "Or foolish, possibly. But since you got in and out without harm to yourself or the prisoner, let's call it courageous. A necessary first step. If we can get the beast—if we can get _her_ to understand us, we may be able to get some information out of her. Who's their king, where we can find him. . . what he values, so we can negotiate with him."

"Or her," Rumple adds. "Perhaps it's a queen."

"Aye." Maurice smiles fondly. "Like Belle will be. A courageous and wise queen, with wise and courageous advisers by her side." He squints meaningfully at Rumple.

"That was only a small first step. A far cry from the careful and delicate communication skills needed for treaty negotiations."

"Aye." His Majesty leans back in his chair. "But a first step, nonetheless. Let's pray the next steps proceed apace, before the Ogre Queen gathers forces and seeks revenge."

"Or a treaty. If she's courageous and wise, she'll come to us for a treaty."

"Is it too much to hope for, two brave and wise queens?" Maurice muses. He reaches into his coat and produces an envelope, which he tosses onto the table. "Which reminds me: a note arrived by relay, from Belle for you. She's arrived safely at Eudes' castle and Duchess Gidie has made her welcome. She arrived tired after her long journey, but anxious to know the outcome of the battle. I'm sending Favian out after lunch with a note from me, assuring her of our safety." He taps his finger against the letter Rumple has been composing. "He can take yours, too. It'll be in her hands by morning."

"Thank you, sire."

Maurice stands. "I'll have lunch brought in so you can finish the letter. I'd like to get Favian on the road within the hour. Belle's very worried." He winks at Rumple. "About both of us." He pauses at the tent flap. "A leader is only as good as the courageous and wise people around her. I've been lucky in that regard, with people like Darain and Celvin—and especially my beloved Colette. I pray that Belle will be as lucky. I think she can be: she chooses her counselors wisely. But it's up to them whether they'll stand beside her or choose the quiet of a private life. Something to think about, Rumple."

He is thinking about it—he's fully cognizant of Maurice's meaning—as he picks up his pen and begins to describe his foray into the cage. Tristan backs in, using his back to push the tent flap open; he sets a filled plate and a steaming mug onto the table. "Perch," he says proudly. "Some of the guys went fishin' this mornin' and caught perch. And there's carrots too." From his pocket he produces a knife and spoon and gives these to Rumple. "And my name won."

"Your name?" Rumple is puzzled.

"For the ogre. We voted and mine won." The boy straightens his coat and his back, as if preparing to make a grand announcement. "Her name is Elylrac. I know that's kinda hard to say but it means _our hope_ in my father's home language. We could call her Ely for short."

"Ely it is. Thank you, squire."

"And Favian's saddled up. He's ready to ride as soon as you finish your letter."

"Point taken, squire. I'll finish in a few minutes and bring it out to Master Favian."

Tristan hovers. "Lieutenant. . . ."

"Yes?"

"Sir, they said you went into the cage. They said you walked right up to the ogre and touched it and—" Tristan cocks his head in disbelief—"and helped her change her clothes."

"Her clothes were dirty."

"I know," he smiles ruefully. "I'm the one that's got to wash 'em. So what they said, it's true?"

"You're washing the clothes, aren't you?" Rumple picks up his pen and returns his attention to the letter.


	26. Medal of Courage

He awakens shivering, partly from a nightmare (an ogre breathing in his face, its needle-sharp teeth bared, saliva dripping from its lips, as its stomach growls) and partly from the cold. He grasps the blanket—no, blankets; sometime during the night someone, probably Bae, got up and fetched more blankets to cover him—and draws it away from his chilled body. He squints, expecting sunlight to fill his eyes, but it doesn't; instead he's staring up into fuzzy blue. He crawls until he's free of it, then as he rises he discovers the fuzzy thing that had hovered over his pallet throughout the night is a piece of tarp, with one end roped to the bars of the cage and the other end staked down into shallow rock. Someone, probably Bae, erected a miniature tent over him. Or rather, them: Bae is gone from within, but his pallet is still there, the blankets folded neatly. Rumple chuckles: he can't remember a day in the boy's life when he voluntarily made his bed at home.

And then he hears a low growl, one he's come to recognize, and fragments of his dream slam into his mind. Around him men and women in winter gear are moving about, some of them preparing breakfast, some of them preparing weapons (part of the daily routine, for other than the ogre who's pressed up against the bars as close as she can get to Rumple's pup tent, there's no threat nearby). His memory is flooded with his conduct of yesterday: his trembling, his pants-wetting, his uncontrolled and unconcealed terror as he entered the cage. He hangs his head, his hair hiding his face from his companions. He doesn't deserve to be here among them.

"Well, good morning," a deep voice booms. There's no sarcasm or anger in it, as far as Rumple can detect, but the King deals with all sorts of people all day long; he's bound to be a master at hiding his true feelings. "How goes it, Lieutenant? Sleep well?"

Rumple can't face him. If the monarch knows of Rumple's cowardice—and he surely does; surely Fendral, a good soldier, has reported every detail of yesterday—there will be a swift and decisive punishment. He'll be stripped of his commission, booted out of the Guard and booted out of the camp with only the clothes he'd brought with him and the nag that the Duke loaned him. Bae will watch the court-martial in disgust, then turn his back as Rumple mounts up. From then on he'll tell the world he's an orphan. And Belle. He expects there will be one final letter from Belle, with language as hot as any bonfire, full of shame and rejection and rage at the way he manipulated her, led her to believe he was worth her affection. A liar as well as a coward. He hadn't lied to her about his love for her, but he'll be too cowardly to tell her that.

But the King's arm drops heavily upon Rumple's shoulders and the King smiles, and Rumple is confused. "We built a kinda tent over you and the lad, after the snow started falling. She"—he juts his chin toward the ogre, hunched beneath her blankets, her head cocked so that her right ear is aligned with Rumple's voice—"she cried when we did that. Like she thought we were hiding you from her or something. That's when she moved from her old corner. She poked her finger at the canvas; I suppose she was thinking of ripping it away, but she didn't. She just sniffed at it and that seemed to satisfy her you were still there, just blocked from her. You know, Rumple, from the way she reacted when we set up the tent, I wonder if they might have some degree of eyesight. It seemed she could see what we were doing. Or maybe it's just their hearing, so much more refined than ours, huh? What do you think?"

"Aye, sire, the hearing," Rumple manages, still waiting for the hammer to drop. "There have been no indications that any of the ogres can see, even slightly. Ah, sire, about yesterday, I'd like to—"

"Yes, of course, my good man, about yesterday. Sorry, so much going on yesterday I was negligent in my duties. You'll excuse me? I'm more of a soldier than a statesman. " He snatches at Tristan's coattail. "Lad, fetch General Darain and Captain Fendral for me."

Rumple's head suddenly becomes too heavy for his neck to prop up. This is it, then. The court-martial. The general comes from the west side of the camp, a bow slung over his shoulder, with a young corporal trailing along behind: she carries a brace of rabbits. Darain's been out hunting this morning, and successfully. Fendral arrives from the east side of the camp, a fishing pole over his shoulder; fishy smells emanate from the wicker basket over his other shoulder. He's obviously been successful too. Rumple watches him walk into camp with broad steps, so much more at ease than his normal tight gait; Rumple wonders for the first time if Fendral is at heart a fisherman, not the soldier he appears to be; maybe it was the war that forced him out of his natural habitat. Maybe, now that it's over, he'll go back. But first he has to witness an expulsion.

"Darain, good morning. We'll have rabbit for breakfast, I see." Maurice openly licks his lips. "Fendral, good morning. And trout. I'm more than ready for fresh meat. Thank you, gentlemen." He straightens his bear coat. "But before we eat, we've got some business to perform. Some _happy_ business."

"Aye, sire," the general and the captain respond, flanking the King.

Maurice arranges his face into a solemn expression. "Captain Fendral and Lieutenant Rumplestiltskin, front and center." When Rumple has obeyed, still staring at the King's boots, Maurice continues, his hand sliding into his coat, "For your conduct in the performance of your duties yesterday, by capturing, without harm to it or anyone else, our one and only prisoner of war, and our best hope for a treaty, I hereby award you the Medal of Courage." The hand that had slid into the coat now brandishes two small pieces of iron fashioned in the shape of a sword. Maurice affixes one to Fendral's collar, the other to Rumple's. "Wear it proudly, gentlemen. It's yours."

As Fendral, standing straight and dignified, shakes hands with Maurice, Rumple opens and closes his mouth, unable to find any words, but behind him the squires cheer. He glances at over his shoulder at Bae, who's beaming. The King now grasps Rumple's hand in his two and pumps enthusiastically. "Good work, Rumple. Belle will be delighted to hear what your bravery has brought us."

Belle. Oh, so that explains it. Rumple fingers the medal. This is for Belle. A scheme Maurice has worked up—planned, no doubt, even before the royal carriage arrived at Ramsgate to pick up its passengers. Find some excuse to give the coward a medal, then detractors will be won over—some of them, at least—and Belle will be free to marry her beloved. Rumple's shame overwhelms him. The worst sort of lie, deceiving not only the public and all these deserving soldiers, but the Princess herself. Will she think he was in on the scheme, when she finds out about it? What will she think of him, but will it be too late for her to disassociate herself from him?

"Let's eat." The King wraps up the proceedings succinctly. Everyone except Rumple strolls over to the campfire to enjoy the sights and sounds and smells of fresh meat roasting on spits. Maurice violates the generals' strict prohibition against spirits of any kind in the battle camp: he's brought a case of what he calls "victory whisky." Never mind the fact that's barely eight in the morning; there aren't enough bottles for more than a sip for each soldier, anyway. When it's time to leave, Celvin promises, they'll stop overnight in Bogamir City and have a proper celebration. The local taverns have already been forewarned and are stocking up on food and drink.

There may not be enough whisky to go round, but there is enough meat going round and round on the spits, the fat dripping into the fire and hissing. Bread and dried fruit and nuts are brought forward but left to the side for now: the soldiers want to be good and hungry for the meat. Rumple watches Bae dart about, fetching mugs of tea for the officers, and plates and knives; soon, it'll be others who do the fetching for him, at his wedding feast.

Or—maybe not. Not when Ramsgate learns that once again, Rumplestiltskin trembled and shook and peed his pants in battle.

Rumple turns his back on the party, resumes his seat beside the cage. At least he can serve honestly in this way, tending the prisoner. He observes the ogre rocking herself to and fro again, her nostrils flaring, a whimper in her throat: she must be smelling the food. She hasn't been fed or watered in half a day. He's taking advantage of a lie, but he can't do this alone: he uses his rank to order the guards to assist him in gathering cheese, bread and fruit into a cart, along with a keg of water. When the gate is unlocked, the guards shove the carts in and prepare to slam the gate shut again, but Rumple squeezes through the opening first. He walks in with his medical kit. He stops about two yards from her, gives her time to sniff him and recognize him, then sniff in the direction of the carts. She shifts back and forth, as if undecided which she will approach: him or the refreshment. He makes the decision easy for her by pushing the water cart towards her and uncorking the keg. He's talking to her all the while, focusing on memories of his speech lessons with Baby Bae; it helps him to block out the sham he's just participated in. He remembers Baby Bae listening intently to each sound his Papa made as he talked. He remembers Bae watching his lips as he formed those sounds. The baby's ability to see as well as hear the vocalizations is important, Papa Rumple instinctively knew, and he made sure he always faced Bae when he was teaching new words.

He has no idea how to teach a blind child. He has a vague memory of an incident he and Milah barely noticed, because it came soon upon his return from war— _from his desertion_ of his fellow soldiers. A one-year-old, discovered to be blind, was taken away from Ramsgate. No one would talk about where he had been taken, but it was common knowledge that he would not return. His parents, farmers living on the edge of the county, had kept to themselves before the boy's birth and saw no reason to become any more sociable after the child was sent away.

He shrugs to himself as he approaches the ogre, talking in soothing tones. His walk, he knows, is distinctive, with its cane tap accompanying every other footfall; she recognizes him and doesn't back away or tremble. He's talking to himself as much as to her, pondering the problem of how to teach her, and a second problem: if he does find a way, how long will the lessons take? For a human child, speech is a natural part of development, and even then, it takes a year. Perhaps an ogre can never learn.

He wishes Belle were here to discuss this. But then, she would have seen the farce with the medal.

Still talking, he leans against his cane to lower himself at her feet. He removed the soiled and wet bandage from her injured foot. She accepts his touch. With his waterskin he wets a strip of cloth, then removes a sliver of soap from his pack and works up a lather. She plops down on her butt as he begins to wash her foot. She even raises her foot so he can wash between her toes. Her eyes close and a soft rumble issues from her throat. It reminds him very much of Midnight's purr.

After drying the foot, he applies ointment to the wound and wraps it in fresh bandages. She wiggles her toes. He puts his medical supplies away, then hauls himself to his feet and limps numbly over to the water cart. She remains seated in the snow—he'll have to do something about that, he realizes; she needs a hot bath, clean clothes and fresh blankets, and some sort of shoe. Her wound will become infected if she continues to walk around barefoot.

He assumes she's cold: her skin is cold to the touch. But as little clothing as her tribe was wearing yesterday, he's not sure. Maybe they prefer the cold. Or maybe, after years of war, they've lost most of the clothing they once had.

He drags the cart toward her. Her nostrils flare and she pushes to her feet. She reaches out—he assumes it's for the water, but her hand instead comes to rest against his chest and she seems to be patting him. Is she thanking him? Are ogres capable of gratitude? "Water," he urges, giving the cart a little shove forward. "Water. Drink."

She grasps the keg with both hands and lifts it to her lips. Her muscles bulge, as big as Rulf's. She drinks, water coursing down her neck and wetting her shirt. She gulps the water as if it might be taken away at any minute. He begs her to drink slowly so she won't choke, but she doesn't understand, of course. Besides, babies always struggle to contain their urges. He remembers what he'd do when Bae would drink too fast from his bottle: he distracts her by waving a loaf of bread beneath her nose. She sets the keg down—he hears the water splash against its sides, informing him it's half full yet—and opens her palm.

He blinks. She could have snatched the food away, but somehow, it seems, she understands she could scratch him or knock him down if she did that. She holds out her open palm and whines, and he places the loaf in it. She gnaws on its rough crust. As she eats, he continues to talk to her, calling her by her new name. When she finishes the loaf, he fetches a pear for her, but before he gives it to her, he presses a finger against her chest. "Ely," he says firmly. "Ely."

She sniffs at the pear and holds out her palm.

"Ely. Ely." He keeps pressing against her.

She sniffs at the pear and holds out her palm.

"All right," he sighs in surrender and presses the pear into her palm. "Pear."

He leaves her to her meal. As he walks out of the cage, the guardsmen lock it hastily behind him. "Tryin' to teach it to talk human, huh?" Harry sneers.

"'Her,' not 'it,'" he grumbles, still walking. He knows that for a certainty now, after helping her dress yesterday.

"What, you gonna put her in a ball gown and teach her to waltz next?"

"Bring tarp to cover the cage," he orders. "All sides, so the snow can't blow in."

"Why should we give up our supplies to make that monster comfortable?" Harry protests. "She'll be easier to manage—"

"She can't serve her purpose for us if she freezes to death," Rumple snaps. He limps off to the officers' tent to think. He has problems to solve, many problems. He needs to write to Belle.

* * *

She still presses herself against the corner bars in the side of the cage farthest from the camp. She still trembles when anyone other than Rumple approaches her side of the cage. But at least now, as long as no one is approaching, she relaxes her posture, stretching out her long legs instead of pulling them to her chest; she even dares to lie down when she's sleepy (she sleeps about half the day, but Rumple doesn't know if that's normal or if she's not feeling well. Or perhaps she just doesn't have anything else to do in this small space, fifteen feet by twelve feet by ten feet). When she is awake, she sometimes moans or whimpers softly to herself and rocks back and forth—mourning her family? At other times she simply looks bored, poking around in the snow for sticks or stones.

Right now, though, she looks distressed. She squirms, her nostrils flaring and her head swinging left to right, left to right, in time with the marching of the ten soldiers guarding her cage. Rumple can't figure out what's wrong: she isn't plucking at the bandage on her foot, and she still has a half-barrel of water left, along with a plentiful supply of nuts, fruits and roots (which some of the soldiers complain about; "providing aid and comfort to the enemy," they call it, at a cost to themselves. Bae grunts at these complaints, reminding them that when off-duty, they've been permitted to go hunting and foraging, and their leaders have made sure that the camp stores are kept full. "Some people don't know when they've got it good," he mutters, and Rumple suspects he's remembering his own hungry days, before Midnight came into their lives and raised their economic prospects. It's one more thing that Rumple is proud of: Bae takes nothing for granted.)

Finally the ogre's shoulders slump heavily and with head drooping, she turns toward the cage bars, attempting to escape the soldiers' notice, but with them marching around the cage, there's nothing she can do that they won't see. As quietly as he can move, Rumple eases around the cage to see what she's doing. Her head swings in his direction and she makes a sound like pain deep in her throat, but then she shifts away from him and lowers her trousers and squats. As quickly as she finishes, she straightens, hauls up the pants and scuffs her feet, throwing snow over the pile. She scrambles to the other side of the cage, as far away as possible from the space she's now marked as her toilet. She settles onto the ground with her chin tucked in and her sightless eyes closed.

Is he anthropomorphizing, or has he just learned that ogres feel embarrassment? Rumple pulls a sheet of paper from his coat and makes notes.

He finds another flat boulder big enough to sit on, brushes the snow away and settles in himself, continuing to study her, though at the moment there's nothing more to note. Her body is still, but from her breathing he concludes that she's not asleep, just doing what little she can to avoid notice. He supposes he'll have to find a way to give her a bath soon, even though the temperatures are below freezing even at midday. Perhaps if she's clean, she'll make less of a target for a few of the soldiers (he knows enough about human behavior, though, to realize the true bullies will simply find something else about her to taunt). He'll also need to provide her with a change of clothes. Trouble is, she's wearing the only civilian clothes in camp. Along with the complaints about feeding her, some of the soldiers also complain about giving her human clothes to wear. He won't provoke them further by putting her in a uniform. He has to pick his fights carefully if he's going to keep her alive.

It's his clothes she's wearing. That gives him a strange feeling—not about her, but about himself. As he starts to nod off in the relative quiet, the rhythmic footfalls of the soldiers lulling him to sleep, his imagination drifts back years, to other soldiers and another monster in these very same clothes, to Hordor and cohorts, tormenting a lame and half-starved spinner, humiliating him in front of his son. Monster. In those days, he couldn't deny it: he was something less than human, to himself as well as to them. Only Bae saw a man beneath the rough homespun.

Self-pity and shame rise up in him, as fresh as when Hordor had him kneeling in the dirt, and as he falls asleep his last wish is to crouch in that cage, where he belongs. But he's pulled from the past when he feels something thump on the boulder, feels warmth at his side and the brush of a shoulder against his. "Sorry, didn't realize you were sleeping."

He jerks his head up to find Fendral now seated beside him. "Oh. Hello."

"I was thinking." Fendral bends to pick up the paper that's fallen from Rumple's hand; he returns it and Rumple tucks it away. "About her." He directs Rumple's attention to the sky. "It's going to snow again tonight. We have plenty of canvas, now that the army's cleared out. We could cover the cage, give her a little warmth."

"Good idea. Bae and I could use some of the leftover blankets to sew some warmer clothes for her."

Fendral nods. "I'm a fair hand with a needle, myself." He grins. "Being a bachelor. Some of the other fellas can sew, too."

"But will they?"

"It's in our Code of Military Justice to treat prisoners of war humanely."

"But what if the prisoner isn't human?"

Fendral shrugs. "The Code doesn't say that's a qualification for being treated decent. They'll sew, if His Majesty tells 'em to. And he will." Fendral waves Bae over. "Best get started now. Squire, fetch us a couple of sewing kits and blankets."

"Aye, sir." Bae, ever energized, trots off.

"He's a good lad," Fendral remarks. "You did a good job raising him."

"He made the job easy. Thanks for looking out for him." Rumple isn't one to share his feelings with someone he barely knows, but there's something about being out here in the snow, in the wilderness, with a man that, in a way, he now shares his son with. "I, ah, I wasn't happy with his choice of occupation, especially in wartime."

"Most fathers aren't."

"But he's always had a mind of his own."

"And a good one it is. He listens to his superiors and obeys orders. He won't do anything rash."

That's the most we can hope for, I suppose."

"I'd say so."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, then Rumple dares to bring up another touchy subject. "Thanks, too, for not telling the others about—how we brought the ogre here. The singing, I mean."

Fendral lowers his gaze and blushes. "Well, I should say the same. Neither one of us would make acceptable court minstrels."

"Or poets."

The men are chuckling when Bae, assisted by a pair of young corporals, returns with the requested materials. Bae takes a moment to appreciate the scene—the two most influential men in his life, laughing together—before asking the purpose of the materials.

"The ogre needs a new set of clothes." Fendral answers, but he's sending a frown across Bae's head to the corporals, daring them to protest.

"Aye, sir." Bae clears off a space on the ground and kneels, rolling out a blanket. He takes a bit of chalk from one of the sewing baskets and begins to mark off cutting lines for a pair of pants.

"Wait, we'll need to measure her first."

"No, sir, not necessary." Bae waves his chalk in the ogre's direction. "I can tell from how my father's clothes hang on her, how much to cut." He smiles over his shoulder at Rumple. "I've been making clothes for Papa and me ever since I could hold a pair of scissors."

"Well," Fendral stares at the corporals. "Don't just stand there. Get to cutting. Or if you can't sew, go find someone who can."

"Aye, sir." The corporals drop to their knees beside Bae.

* * *

Througout the remainder of that day and entirety of the next, he keeps trying to teach her simple words: _apple, snow, foot, pants_ , her name. As avidly as she appears to be listening—she always turns her right ear in the direction of his voice and cocks her head—she makes no effort to imitate his words. He would have been happy with a single syllable, just some slight indication that she'd caught on to the concept of human language, but she doesn't even try. It frustrates him, because he's sure she's smart enough: she washes herself in the warm water he brings, she dresses herself in the new clothes they've made for her (though she scratches at her belly and legs; apparently her skin is, remarkably, too sensitive for wool). He's even seen her nibble the tip of a stick into a point so that she could fashion a sort of pick with which to clean her teeth. Best of all, she comes to him when he calls, so he has reason to believe she recognizes her name; she will come when Bae calls too. A long, deep sniff of Bae the first time he entered her cage apparently informed her that he's Rumple's family and that makes him safe for her. He begins to wonder if there is some physical impediment, some blockage or something missing in her throat that makes it impossible for her to mimic him.

Still, he keeps trying with the same method, because he can't think of anything else.

The guardsmen develop a pattern for their days. At sunrise, three of them will prepare the meal, while the squires fetch wood and water and five others stand guard (down from ten, by orders of Darain, who has determined the prisoner poses no threat). After breakfast, the squires clean the camp and do the laundry while Maurice and the guardsmen go hunting or fishing. Rumple stays near the cage, mending his comrades' clothes, writing letters to Belle, studying and talking to the ogre.

After lunch, the guardsmen sit around the campfire, swapping stories while they sharpen their swords and knives, restring their bows and cut new arrows. Rumple watches the ogre listen to them, her head bobbing as she falls asleep to their voices. In the beginning, Maurice's booming laughter wakes and startles her, but she gradually becomes familiar with his voice. Fendral often joins Bae and Rumple at cageside, helping to sew her another set of blanket-clothes and pairs of booties. As Fendral shares stories from his own adventures and admits to a longing for home, Bae opens up also; it surprises and pleases Rumple deeply to listen as his son talks about his childhood _with fondness and gratitude_ , as though all the humiliation and hunger of the early years had never happened. Rumple has to excuse himself from the camp sometimes, to fade into the woods for privacy as he wipes his moist eyes.

On the encroachment of darkness on the third night of Ely's capture, Fendral examines the sky and predicts dropping temperatures and new snow. "She's cold enough already," Bae grumbles. "She'll get sick if we don't do something. Think we can build a fire in her cage?"

"I don't think she'd disturb it, if we did," Rumple judges. "She seems to understand what fire is, though there have never been reports of ogres building fires."

"Won't do much good," Fendral objects, "without some sort of shelter to hold the heat in." He glares at Harry and certain other guardsmen. "We have to put up some canvas around this cage."

They're all thinking the same thing, and they're right: just as soon as they raid the supply tent for canvas, ropes and stakes, loud protests arise and Harry even plants himself in the path, arms folded. "What the hell—pardon, Captain—do you think you're doing?" Three other guardsmen rush forward to side with Harry.

"That should be obvious, even to you, Corporal." Fendral plants himself too, face to face with Harry, as Rumple and Bae, each carrying an end of a heavy bolt of canvas, detour around their opponents. "We're erecting a tent around the cage, in accordance with the Code of Military Justice, Section III, Part A., Rules Regarding the Treatment of Prisoners of War."

"Well, _we_ say that Section III don't apply here. _We_ say that what's in that cage ain't no prisoner of war; it's a animal."

"No different," another guard adds, "than a dragon or a bull. Maybe it walks on two legs, but it's no more human than a bear, which can do the same. And which has got a lot more usefulness than that thing has."

"And smells a lot better," a third man grunts.

"This is an order, Corporal. You and your friends will stand aside." Fendral's hand comes to rest on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Harry and his companions stand aside, but Harry persists, "We'll see what His Majesty has got to say about it."

"I should think His Majesty's opinion on the subject would be obvious as well." The big voice and even bigger form of the King, bundled in his bear coat, interject into the debate. "We took this prisoner for one purpose only: to study her, to figure out a way to communicate with her so that we can eventually through her make a treaty with her king. Providing for her welfare while she's in our keeping is simply self-serving. We not only want her alive but trusting of us." Maurice waves a hand at Rumple and Bae, encouraging them to continue with building the tent.

Darain appears to settle the would-be insurrection. "Private Harry, you were warned. You are hereby demoted for disobeying a direct order and coercing others to do likewise." The general doesn't appear fazed in the least when Harry clutches his sword. "Furthermore, you are removed from guard duty and for the duration will serve as a relay rider."

Harry's mouth opens, but before words can spill out, Darain thrusts a finger into his chest. "One more and you're dishonorably discharged."

Harry steps back, dropping his hands to his sides and lowering his head. "Yes, sir."

"Grab your gear. You're relieving Private Kamen at the ten-mile marker."

"Now, sir? But it'll be dark in less than—"

"Now, Private Harry!"

Harry snaps a salute, spins on his heel and marches off to the officers' tent to collect his belongings. From there on, the remaining complainers keep their thoughts to themselves. Rumple notices, however, that when he lines up for chow, the portions he's served are less than everyone else's and frequently overcooked. He snorts. If these amateurs think they're getting under his skin with their lame attempts to belittle him, they don't know the first thing about bullying.

* * *

He falls asleep beside his son, under the shelter of their makeshift tent, with a small campfire and a big ogre just on the other side of the iron bars. He can hear the wind howling outside, but inside, he can hear Bae breathing thickly through an oncoming case of the sniffles and Ely purring contentedly, warm for the first time in three days.

In his dreams the wind and the purring merge and he imagines he and Bae are back home, Midnight sleeping on his hip.

Morning comes on; his body can sense it as the sky and the wind lighten and the snow stops falling. Outside, he hears birds chirping and soldiers beginning to stir, but he's holding onto a fading dream that warms him inside and out. A soft feminine hand brushing his hair back from his face, a soft feminine voice urging him to wake and the scent of roses keep calling him back into the dream, until the crack of a twig finally breaks him into reality. Before he opens his eyes, he's aware of two things: Bae is gone and someone is kneeling beside him, stroking his forehead and speaking.

He yanks his eyes open. "Belle!"


	27. Just Like Her Mother

"Belle!"

"Good morning, Rumple." Her smile is smug; she's managed to surprise him and it pleases her. Catching him off-guard also gives her a chance to see on his unguarded face how he really feels about her, and that information pleases her even more. "How are you?"

"I, ah, I'm all—Belle, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Bogamir City, safe and warm—Belle, you're the heir to the throne. Your father being here is bad enough—does he know you're here?" Rumple sputters as he struggles to sit up.

She merely chuckles. "From everything he and you have written, it's safe for me to be here. The ogres are gone, with one small exception. I'm eager to meet her, by the way. I'm glad to see you won the argument about wrapping the cage in tarp. We need to keep her healthy and, as best we can, happy, if we're going to earn her cooperation."

He's not ready to be distracted from his criticism of her sudden and unsanctioned appearance in a war zone. "Does your father know you're here? Did he give you permission—"

A frown slides down over her excited smile. "I'm a grown woman, Rumple. I make my own decisions. I listen to advice of those I respect, but in the end, it's my life and my right to decide how to live it."

It's a simplistic view, he wants to tell her; everything she does has an impact on her kingdom. She has responsibilities that can't be ignored, just as he did, when he was raising Bae; he had to shape his choices around what would be good for Bae. She is still so young that she doesn't quite get that yet, the breadth and depth of her responsibilities. He thinks he should point this out to her, but he realizes either she wouldn't see it, would think he was trying to use their age difference as a way of manipulating her, or, if she did see it, he would be robbing from her the freedom to dream that rightfully belongs to the young. Soon enough, life will chip away at those dreams, lay burdens on her shoulders, but she will not bow under them if she has had, in her youth, the opportunity to think and live as she feels right.

Besides, he's just selfish enough that he's delighted she's here.

He sits up—he can do without embarrassment, because he slept in his clothes, breathes in the crisp air to clear away the last of his drowsiness, and changes the subject. "Well, I'm sure we'll make much faster progress now with Ely."

But she hasn't gotten the reaction from him that she'd hoped to, and she needs just a bit of that, some encouragement, some sign of support—after all, she's aware that once the guardsmen learn she's come, there will be a protest, and if she can't fight back with her father on her side, it would help to have at least one supporter. "Rumple, are you glad to see me?"

He looks into her eyes and sees the need and the hope there. He reaches out to take her gloved hand. "I am. Even if I didn't need your help with Ely, I'd be glad to see you here. Glad to see you anywhere."

She smiles and squeezes his hand. Now she's ready to take on her father and the army. "Even if it weren't for Ely, I'd still want to be here with you."

"Let's go, then." He yanks his boots on. "Get some warm food in us, and then we'll talk to your father, in private. He tends to sleep in a bit late, so we should have time enough for breakfast before we need to confront him."

"He'll fuss and fret," she predicts, "but he'll be glad to see me, nonetheless, especially when we start working together with Ely."

He kneels, then pulls on his coat. The shine of metal against the wool catches her attention and, mouth falling open, she touches the medal. "Rumple! That's the Medal of Courage!"

His mouth tightens. If he'd had known she was coming, he would have hidden the medal: he'd rather she not know about it, because now the questions will come, now her father's little scheme to elevate the Spinner's public image will be exposed, and that can only lead to ill will all around.

"You didn't mention this in your letters. Papa didn't either; I guess he planned to surprise me when you all rode into Bogamir. Is that what you were thinking too, to surprise me?" she purses her lips in mischief.

"No," he mutters, giving her a slight push to urge her to crawl from the tent. She complies, but once they're outside and standing, she persists. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'd rather not talk about it. Let's get some breakfast, Belle. The cookfire's over there."

"Rumple?" She trails along behind him, then with some quick steps catches up and peers into his face. "I don't understand."

"Later, we'll talk about it later."

"No, now." She seizes his sleeve. While they're still out of hearing range of the soldiers gathered around the fire, she will have her answer. "Something's wrong and I need to know what it is."

He stops, turns toward her and hunches deeper into his coat. "Belle, I told you what I did during the battle. All I did was blow a whistle. It was only after the last of the ogres was long gone that I went down into the canyon, and that was just to tend the wounded. I didn't even have a weapon on me. If I had, I couldn't have used it. I just—I'm not a fighter. I just don't have it in me. And so this—" he fingers the medal, resisting the urge to yank it off—"I didn't earn it."

"That's not true. In his letters, Papa described what you did. He was quite adamant that if not for you, we wouldn't have Ely and a chance to make peace." When he starts to shake his head, she persists. "Rumple, there are only two things Papa ever exaggerates: the size of the fish he catches and the amount of ale he can consume in one sitting. Matters of war, he takes very seriously. He wouldn't exaggerate an act of bravery, not even to please me, not even to flatter the man I love."

"I didn't—Belle, I came upon her by accident. If I hadn't been so afraid, I would have run away. I did nothing courageous. This medal is a lie. I shouldn't be wearing it. Especially when there are men right over there at that campfire who ran into the canyon and met the enemy head-on. They're the heroes, not me. Not ever me."

"To suggest that my father would give his highest award as a—a hoax of some sort, is an insult to him."

"I don't mean it that way. But your father is a generous man and a loving father. He wants—Belle, I think the purpose of this medal to convince the nobles that I'm worthy of their respect and worthy of standing beside you as a leader."

A cloud of cold air puffs from her lips as she huffs. "You're wrong, Rumple. Flat out wrong. I hope you haven't said any of this to him. He would be hurt."

He stares at the snow as he shakes his head again. "I won't argue with you, Belle. But I won't lie to you, either. This is what I think; this is how I feel."

"You're wrong. You conducted yourself like a hero. You captured a prisoner—one that could have crushed you with a swat of her hand. You can argue til you're out of breath and you'll never convince me." Her hands are on her hips, but when he doesn't fight back, she lets them drop to her sides. Her tone softens. "All right, I can see it's how you really feel. We'll talk about this later." She links her arm in his. "Let's get some breakfast. I rode a long way and I'm hungry."

He looks stricken as a new thought hits him. "Alone? Sweetheart, did you come alone?"

"No," she assures him. "I do have limits on how far I'm willing to break the rules. I know some of my choices may seem reckless, but I'm careful about them. I do know that who I am makes me a target for my kingdom's enemies, or even just desperate men who'd like to trade my life for gold. I came with two soldiers from General Celvin's command. A platoon of them were passing through Bogamir and they stopped at the castle to rest, and I managed to persuade two of them to accompany me."

His worry for her is shrinking, but he clamps his mouth shut to avoid revealing that fact. If he relents, it's the same as conceding that her decision was right, and he'll never do that, can't do that, it would only encourage future headlong runs into danger.

Her voice softens as she searches his eyes. He dodges her examination by looking behind her toward the campfire and the shivering soldiers gathered around it. "Rumple, please, put aside the 'should have's' and answer me truthfully. Are you glad I'm here?"

"It's selfish of me to—"

"Rumple," she presses, "are you glad I'm here?"

He nods, ashamed of his weakness but elated at the same time that his partner in research is here to solve this problem—and that the woman who fascinates him like no other is pressing her gloved hand against his cheek.

"All right." He pats her hand and quickly changes the subject to resist the urge to draw her in closer. "Now, our fare is rather rough, but filling and fresh. Come and have some fish and venison, and then we'll talk about how to approach your father."

"And then we'll talk about how to approach your ogre." She bumps her shoulder against his in a teasing manner. "Once we start working with her, I'm sure any objections to my being here will dissipate." She looks at him meaningfully. "Any objections, even yours."

* * *

The guardsmen and –women recognize her immediately, even under her layers of wool and leather, and they bow to her; when she bids them good morning, they step back, making space for her at the fire, then they stare at her from the corners of their eyes and murmur among themselves. Only Fendral dares to speak to her; he brings her a cup of nettle tea. "Your Highness," he nods a greeting. "What are you doing here? Something wrong in Bogamir? Or back home?"

He's known her long enough and well enough to speak to her so bluntly without it coming across as disrespectful. She thanks him as she accepts the cup, blows across the top, then takes a small sip. "No, nothing wrong. My father wrote me about the prisoner. That's why I'm here." She reads the objection forming on his face and interrupts, "It's been nearly a week, hasn't it, since the battle, and there's been no sign of other ogres in the vicinity, correct?"

"That's so," the captain has to admit. "Still," he rolls his head toward the lightening horizon, "conditions here are too harsh for a lady. . . ."

"But not too harsh for them." She indicates the guardswomen crouched in the snow, their roughened, red fingers pulling off strips of meat from rabbit bones and popping it, steaming, into their mouths.

"Well, they've been trained for survival in all sorts of environments. And you—the kingdom needs for you to remain safe and healthy. Risky enough that His Majesty is here."

"You need these women here; that's really what you're saying, isn't it? They're warriors; I'm not." As Fendral reddens and fumbles for some sort of satisfactory reply, Rumple leans in to warn him in a low voice, "Give up. She can talk circles around you, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Fendral throws his hands in the air. "As long as you're here, Your Highness, we might as well feed you. I'll fix you a plate." He stomps over to the cooks and barks at them, taking his defeat out on them. Rumple takes comfort in not being the only soldier to lose a verbal battle with the Princess. As he watches Fendral loading up a plate, pride creeps up upon him: pride that his sovereign can rather easily manipulate even the strongest of men with just a few words. . . and a faint but undeniable pride in himself, that such a strong woman prefers him over all the suitors she could choose from.

He's on the verge of chastising himself for his crumbling resolve to do the right thing and separate himself from her when Bae trots over, bearing cup, plate and large, surprised grin. "Your Highness!" He bows, sloshing tea onto his boots, and the bread and meat stacked on the plate begins to slide off. He rights himself just in time and hands the food to his father. "Wow!" He licks his chapped lips as he searches for something to say, but surrenders to another "Wow!"

Belle laughs. "It's good to see you too, Baelfire. In his letters your papa has been telling me you've been assisting with his attempts to communicate with the ogre. Perhaps we could sit down somewhere," she glances about, and overhearing, two soldiers jump up from the felled log they've been occupying and wave her over. "And discuss your findings so far, the three of us?"

Bae pulls up even straighter. "Yes, ma'am!" He darts ahead of them as Fendral brings a plate to Belle, and he's unwrapping a scarf from his throat and spreading it out on the log as Rumple and Belle, carefully balancing their tea and breakfast, move more slowly to the log. He's a bit uncomfortable about touching a royal, but his papa's teachings have ingrained manners into him, so Bae takes Belle by the elbow and assists her in sitting down. Rumple, joining her, winks at his son in approval.

"Sit down beside me, Bae," Belle invites—using this as an excuse to scoot closer to Rumple. She sets the cup between her feet, using her ankles to hold it steady, as she lifts a bite of fish to her lips. She hums in satisfaction, then smiles in embarrassment as she wipes grease from her mouth. "Sorry," she apologizes around a mouthful. "It was nothing but jerky and hard biscuits, the past two days on the road."

"Yes, ma'am," Bae replies. He's not just being polite in his agreement; he's had many an indigestible meal on the road, himself.

"Would you like some?" She tilts the plate a little in offering.

"Oh, no, thank you, ma'am." He looks horrified at the thought of eating off the Princess' plate. "Us squires, we eat before we go around and wake everyone else up."

"A small perk of the job, and well deserved, too," she approves. "From what my father tells me of camp life, you squires work longer hours than anyone."

"Yes, ma'am, well, except the cooks."

She starts to suggest something, but thinks better of it and changes her tactics. "Baelfire, I have an idea. Let's think of ourselves as scientists, for the time being, and talk freely between us, as scientists would. We must feel free to be frank with each other, and to disagree, yes? If we're going to learn all we can about the ogre."

"Oh. Yes, ma'am." Bae's eyes widen.

"So let's start by making ourselves comfortable with each other, all right? You can call me Belle—" she catches the objection in his eyes; such familiarity goes against all the etiquette his father and his captain have taught him. "Just between us, as we talk in private. All right? And if it's all right, I'll call you Bae. When the others can't hear."

"Yes, ma'am."

She tosses a smile over her shoulder at Rumple. "Let's eat, and then we'll go wake my father and have a little chat with him, and then we'll get to work with Elylrac." She pops another chunk of fish into her mouth as she turns back to Bae. "If she doesn't mind, I'll call her Ely too, as you do."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Bae, are you sure you wouldn't like some fry bread? It looks delicious and Captain Fendral gave me more than I can eat."

He exchanges a questioning glance with Rumple, who nods. "Well—thanks, ma'am. It _is_ good." He plucks a slice off her plate. Rumple chuckles softly, certain that when Bae writes home to Morraine tonight, sharing breakfast with the Princess will lead off the letter.

* * *

With Rumple a few paces behind and Bae waiting outside, Belle sweeps into the officers' tent and plops down onto a chair at the table upon which maps and Rumple's notes are spread. "Good morning, Father!"

"Belle!" the King squeals, stumbling over his trousers, which he was struggling into before being so rudely interrupted. Rumple allows himself one quick glance—the King's longjohns look no different from his own, he discovers—before politely looking away.

Grunting as he fights both embarrassment and cloth, the King hurries to finish dressing. His rope belt finally tied, he huffs, "Now then! Do you mind telling me what the hell you're doing here?" Then he gulps. "It's not—nothing's wrong at home? Your mother—"

She waves a dismissive hand. "Don't worry, I'm not here as a message bearer. I'm here as a scientist."

"What the—"

"You know it's a fact, Father: I'm Aramore's leading expert on ogres. Possibly even in all of humanity." She leans back in the chair in complete confidence, and Rumple and Maurice exchange a befuddled shrug. "You need me here. Not that Rumple isn't knowledgeable and clever." She tosses him a fond smile. "And persistent and patient and attentive and he's obviously won the ogre's trust and he's making progress, more than anyone else could—except me. We have no idea what the ogre kingdom might be planning, do we, Father? Or where they are, or even what they want. They may be regrouping even now. We think this war is over, but what if a new one is brewing? We must not waste time, Father." She slams her fist on the tabletop and Maurice and Rumple both startle with the noise. "Learning a language without the benefit of a translator or even a written text to study is difficult enough, but it's even harder between avowed enemies, and harder still when there are, from what Rumple has written me, likely physical differences between our species and theirs. We must not waste time, Father!" She hops to her feet. "If we're to have _any_ hope of achieving a treaty, or at least a truce, it's going to take all our knowledge, combined." She twirls about and swishes through the tent flaps, calling back, "Aramore is lucky to have the two leading experts on ogres right here, where we're needed. So, with your permission, Father, Rumple and I will get right to work. If you don't mind, we'll need a tent of our own, in place of that pup tent of Rumple's, and a table and chairs and lanterns—we'll be working into the night, no doubt—"

"A tent?!" Maurice yelps. "The _night_?! Alone in a tent at—"

"If you're concerned about propriety, Baelfire will be with us." She sashays away from the officers' tent. "Taking notes."

Maurice echoes faintly, "Taking. . . ?"

"Rumple! We're wasting time!"

Rumple smiles sheepishly at his King. "Sorry, Your Majesty."

"Oh, I know," Maurice sighs. "I don't blame _you_ , Lieutenant. She's just like her mother." He runs his hands through his shaggy hair. "A force of nature against which we men don't stand a chance."

"Rumple, come on!"


	28. Maybe She Doesn't Know about Toys

They're too far off for Rumple to make out anything they're saying, but he can tell just the same it isn't good news they're sharing. The two soldiers who accompanied Belle on her journey from Bogamir have taken General Darain aside and are gesturing most emphatically.

A moment later, Darain has spun on his heel and beelined for the King, and a moment after that, they're disappearing into the officers' tent for a one-on-one conference.

Suspicious looks are cast and mumbles ripple across the camp—Rumple can feel them even as he huddles beside Bae and Belle on the fallen-log seat from which he's been observing the ogre this past week. They're sitting too close together, heads bent over Rumple's notes, and the soldiers find the familiarity disrespectful, Rumple understands that; but each time he tries to slide surreptitiously away from her, Belle shivers and slides toward him. Either she, with her small frame, is overly susceptible to cold or she simply wants to be close to him. Perhaps both.

Nevertheless, she's digging herself a deeper hole with these soldiers: she shouldn't be here in the first place—she doesn't seem to recognize that her presence is making their work harder. Protecting the King, who's at least weapons-trained and as big as this ogre, is one thing, but at least he talks and walks and thinks like a military man, and he doesn't expect any courtly courtesies while he's here. The Princess has shown up here uninvited, untrained, unarmed, uninitiated into the ways of camp life and unfamiliar with military rules and procedures. Now, in addition to guarding the King and the ogre, and patrolling the canyon for signs of threat and scouring the woods for edibles, this small platoon will have to keep an eye on the Princess, following her everywhere she goes (but maintaining a respectful distance and remembering to bow and call her "ma'am"), even into the woods when she needs to answer nature's call. Then, to make matters worse, in the view of some (the women soldiers tend to disagree) she's shown up in men's clothes; from the back or side, how are they supposed to know that's a royal and not a garden-variety female soldier?

And now, look at her, she who should be the model of ladylike propriety, all scrunched up cozy with the peasantry. Rumple knows that's what they're saying to each other and he worries for Belle. If in her youthful exuberance she continues to trample over their expectations for her, how will she retain their respect? Without their respect, yes, she can command their obedience, but will she lose their loyalty? When her father passes on and she inherits the crown, will their affection and admiration for him continue to shield her or will they fall away? Rumple should take her aside and share his concerns; she respects him and will listen and perhaps will modify her behavior under his counsel, but he has no right, really, to talk to her about personal matters, especially since their relationship is, can be, nothing more than a friendship between two people who share intellectual interests.

He is saved from making a decision by the arrival of her father, whose scrunched up expression informs Rumple that he shares the same worries. "Pardon me, gentlemen," the King asks of the Stiltskin men, and Bae sits up straighter under the term _gentlemen_. It's one of the reasons Bae loves military life, he's admitted to Rumple: a soldier's social rank is significant only in the beginning of his or her military career, establishing whether he or she will be created an officer; from then on, progress in the career is dependent upon the soldier's own merits. In the King's Guard, any peasant came someday become a general.

"I must speak to my daughter alone."

"Of course, sire," Rumple fumbles for his cane, his joints stiff in the cold; Bae slides a hand under his elbow to help him to his feet. The two of them bow and start to walk away, but Maurice stays them. "No, you men may remain here. Belle, please come with me to the officers' tent," he casts a quick glance over his shoulder to the troops who are standing guard at the cage. "So we can talk in private."

Belle licks her lips nervously. "Yes, Father." She brushes the snow from the seat of her trousers and with a humbled posture follows her father into the tent.

After several minutes of her continued absence, Rumple sits back down again and Bae decides, "I guess I should check in with Captain Fendral, see if he needs anything. I'll come back when she does."

Rumple nods. "That's just as well." He glances toward the officers' tent. "It may be a while." He picks up his pencil and tries to focus on the ogre, but Ely's not doing anything worth noting, just idly poking holes in the snow with a stick. More honestly, he's worried all over again for Belle. If her father sends her packing like a disobedient child, how will the soldiers feel about her then? How will she feel about herself? Then he tightens his chin as it occurs to him that her leaving will impede their work with Ely. He starts to mentally compose a defense for her being here, for the good of the kingdom. His fingernails dig into the wood of his cane. He'll argue with the King, if he has to, to keep Belle here.

That's when he knows just how far gone he is, that she's gotten him to overlook caution and propriety just to keep her by his side. Bemused at his own shifting mindset, he shakes his head, poking holes in the snow with his cane.

Ely apparently becomes bored with her stick, because she swings her head toward him and makes a puzzled sound in her throat. He needs something productive to do, so he gathers his medical kit and approaches the gate, nodding once at the guard standing nearest it; the guard says nothing as he allows Rumple admittance.

"Ely," Rumple calls out as he steps through.

She smiles, her nostrils twitching as she takes in his scent. Her smile expands as he comes within arm's length of her and she holds out her open palm. "No," he chuckles. "You just ate an hour ago." And then he makes a mental note to add to his research notes: ogres apparently eat for emotional reasons, like humans do. "Foot. Medicine." He bends to pat at her foot as a signal; she understands and plops down on her fanny. As he washes and applies lotion to the nearly healed arrow wound, he wonders if it's that she understood his words or if it's his tap on her foot that she interpreted as a command to sit down. Midnight over the years has absorbed a dozen commands, but he's never stopped to wonder whether it was the word or the touch that she understood.

Ely purrs and wiggles her healthy foot as he works on her injury. It reminds him of how Midnight leans into him when he scratches her ears, or how Bae would wiggle in the tub when Rumple washed his back (oh, but how he'd whine when Rumple dabbed the cloth into his ears!). With the ogre so relaxed, Rumple closes his kit and tries again, touching each item as he pronounces its name: _foot, toe, hand, shirt._ Only four words; not too many to absorb. He repeats them and repeats them. Ely makes no effort to mimic either the sounds or the touches.

When his ankle won't hold his crouching weight any longer, he hauls himself up, collects his kit, pats her head and turns away. All around the cage, the soldiers snap to attention and raise their weapons. He chuckles to himself: he knows how they hate it when he turns his back on the ogre. They've complained to Darain about it, that he's intentionally making himself vulnerable. Not so, Rumple's argued back; he's proving to them that Ely can be trusted, and demonstrating to Ely that he trusts her. Darain has so far remained neutral on the subject.

Belle and Maurice have returned to the fallen log by the time Rumple's exited the cage. Their faces are solemn but not grim; they've apparently come to a compromise, or at least a truce that will allow her to stay, because she's smoothing her trousers legs as if they're a skirt and she's seating herself on the log as Maurice perches a foot on the log. They don't keep him wondering. As soon as he's in earshot, the King announces, "Two days, Lieutenant. Do you think that's enough time for you two to make a start on teaching the ogre to talk?"

"Perhaps. . . ."

"Because that's the time you have." Maurice squeezes his daughter's shoulder. "We've agreed Belle can stay for two days. After that, she's going back to the safety of Bogamir Castle."

Belle nods in confirmation. "We can make headway in two days, can't we, Rumple?" Her tone is confident but her eyes urge him to give her hope. "One word? If we can get her to say one word, we can continue."

"If it can be done, we can do it," he offers. "We are, after all, the leading human experts on ogres."

"She's a child just like one of ours; she'll want to learn," Belle muses.

"Best of luck, then. Whatever resources you need, you need only ask," Maurice concludes. "I'll leave you to it." After a hasty hug with his daughter, the King strolls away.

Belle waits until he's out of hearing range, then tightens her mouth. "Rumple, I need to tell you something. It's about why I was in such a hurry to come here that I didn't wait for permission."

Rumple clutches his cane.

"There's talk in Avonlea. The Avonlea Regiment arrived home a couple of days ago, and my mother sent a message to me at Bogamire. The town is up in arms. They want to execute the ogre, in retaliation for all the lives lost. They say it will be a detriment to any ogres who might be thinking of raiding Aramore again."

Rumple's back stiffens. "Your father knows this?"

She nods. "I shared the message with him just now. It's why he set the two-day deadline. He wants me back in Bogamir City, where he thinks I'll be safe."

"Belle, I—"

"I tried to convince him that none of us will be safe if we don't manage to win Ely over to our side." She fixes him with a glare. "You do believe that, don't you?"

"What I don't believe is that we should risk your life—"

"You believe in me, don't you, Rumple?"

"Oh, Belle," he moans. "Don't turn this into a test of my love for you."

"No, but it is a test of your faith in me."

"Belle, no, this isn't personal-"

"Rumple, you've stayed in Bogamir Castle. You've seen Duke Eudes' military force."

He nods ruefully. "All twenty of them. Not a man, woman or horse among them that's under the age of sixty."

She presses a hand against his knee and leans in to study his expression. "Rumple, you tell me, where am I safer: with them in Bogamir or here, with Darain and my father's Home Guard?" When he swallows, caught between a truthful answer and an emotionally satisfying one, she adds, "Besides, if you were an ogre out for revenge or a rich meal, would you attack this camp, with its forty armed and trained guards, or a barely protected village like Bogamir, or a city that's too big for its army to protect, like Avonlea?"

He sighs. "We had better get to work, if we have only two days."

She sneaks a small kiss of gratitude onto his cheek. "Thank you for being on my side."

"Belle, I'm always on your side." He sneaks a hand squeeze in. "Even when I disagree with you." He rises, leaning on his cane. "I'll find our note-taker so we can get started."

* * *

When Rumple returns with Bae in tow, Belle is standing a safe distance from the cage and watching the ogre closely. For her part, Ely is also standing still, facing her observer. Her body shivers and as Rumple and Bae walk around to her side of the cage, they can see her nostrils fluttering rapidly. "That's a good sign. She's curious, not nervous."

Bae chuckles. "Which 'she'?"

Rumple catches the humor in the question. "Both, I suppose." As they join Belle, he notices she now has a bag slung over her shoulder. "What's that?"

"Presents." But she quickly corrects the misconception she sees in Bae's brightening eyes. "For her, not for you fellows. Sorry, Bae."

"Presents for an ogre?" Bae is skeptical.

"It's a long-standing tradition among royals for the visitor to bring gifts to the host." Belle lets the bag slide from her shoulder; it's apparently quite heavy.

Rumple assists her in setting it down in the snow. "What makes you think she's a royal?"

Belle flashes her dimples at him and he swears he can feel the snow under his feet melting. "I don't, but who doesn't love presents?" She roots around in the bag and produces her first offering: a leather kickball. Bae's eyes light up again and Rumple feels a bit guilty. For years as he was growing up, Bae longed to own a kickball—he would've been only the second child in Ramsgate to possess such a treasure—but Rumple never could manage it, neither through barter nor money saving.

He wonders if Bae, soon to be soldier, soon to be husband, would consider himself too old to receive such a gift this Yuletide. When does it become too late to make up for the past?

"Introduce me, please." Belle tucks the ball under one arm and links the other through Rumple's.

He cautions her first. "We won't go inside the cage yet, nor any closer than arm's length. It's not that I'm afraid she'd hurt you."

"I've gone into the cage many times and she's never made a threatening move," Bae adds. "She does like to pet my hair, though, and sometimes she gets a little heavy-handed when she does it."

"And if they"—Rumple nods toward the guards—"saw her raise a hand towards you—"

Belle finishes the thought. "They'd shoot first and ask questions later. I understand. I won't approach her."

"Very well, then." He leads her a few steps closer to the bars. Ely cocks her head and sniffs, first toward Rumple, then toward Bae, then finally, Belle. The ogre smiles and purrs. Belle doesn't have to ask for an interpretation: "She likes me! It's because you vouch for me, I'm sure."

"Ely," Rumple calls out, "this is Belle. A friend. Belle."

The ogre pushes her face against the bars, stretching out her nose as far as she can so she draw in the stranger's scent. She snuffles, but delicately, and that makes Belle laugh in delight and begin to reach out to touch her, but Rumple seizes her hand and pushes it down. "Sorry, I forgot," Belle explains. "She's just so friendly. Not at all what we expected, is she, Rumple?"

"Not at all. She's curious and playful and gentle, like a human child. I just wish she would take an interest in learning to talk."

"Ely," Belle says, "I have a present for you." She kneels to roll the ball through the bars of the cage. When Ely makes no effort to retrieve it, Belle urges, "For you. A ball."

"Maybe she doesn't know about toys," Bae speculates. "Me and Fendral watched a band of ogres for weeks, a while back, and they didn't have anything like toys."

Belle has an alternative explanation. "Maybe that's because they were on the move. Refugees."

"Or a war band. But they did have four young ones with them. A little bigger than this one."

Rumple adds, "The way they might see it is they were a hunting party. Not too unusual for parents to take the older kids with them on a hunt, to teach them."

Belle urges the ogre again, "Ely. Ball. For you. To play." When Ely doesn't move, Belle huffs, "I wish I could touch her. Move her hand to the ball so she knows it's there."

"Let's take a step back," Bae suggests. "Maybe she's too curious about us to pay attention to the ball." So they retreat to their fallen log and sit down, chatting idly, and sure enough, eventually, Ely stands down from her perch at the bars and loses interest in her spectators. She sniffs about, finds the ball (how she can smell a ball, Rumple can't fathom) and plops onto her butt beside it. Clearly uncertain whether it's safe, she just sits there and waits for the ball to do something: attack, bite, run away. Several silent minutes pass with neither the ogre or the ball making a move. The child-ogre's patience wears thin and she pokes the ball; it rolls away a few inches and she backs off, startled, but when it comes to a stop and stills, she pokes it again, harder. The ball rolls farther; she comes to her knees and crawls after it. Belle giggles and claps her hands, but softly, so as not to distract the ogre. "They do play with toys!"

Ely's game continues for nearly a half-hour before she apparently decides she can trust the ball. She picks it up and licks it, then makes a face as her tongue comes away coated with slush. Next she squeezes the ball, but she stops just short of squashing it. She sits cross-legged in the snow, letting ball rest in her lap while she redirects her attention to the humans. Her head cocked, she eavesdrops on their conversation.

"Ball, Ely," Bae calls out. "Ball."

She clutches the ball to her chest, whether protectively or affectionately, Rumple can't guess. Either way, she's clearly happy, because she's purring.

Bae comes toward the cage and kneels, holding out his hands. "Ely, give me the ball. Give me the ball."

She doesn't understand. He persists, but when she doesn't release the ball he finally gives up. Just as he's turned back toward the log, the ball comes flying at him and bounces off his leg. "Ely!" He fetches the ball, exasperated but pleased at the same time, and rolls it toward her. She sends it back promptly, more gently this time, and with chuckles on both sides of the cage, a game is underway.

Belle rests her chin on her fist. "Now, how do we go from a game to a conversation?"


	29. Bath Time

As a bell is rung to signal lunchtime, Bae leaps to his feet and offers to bring the Princess and his father something to eat. Bae's heard the gossip and as a gentleman, he's going to protect Belle as best he can from being exposed to it around the cookfire.

Belle stands and stretches, her sight wandering to the soldiers gathering around a spit; obviously she's about to express a desire to join them, but Rumple answers for both of them. "Thank you, Bae. That would be nice."

They're hungry, tired and a bit irritable after a morning without success—"well, not completely without success," Belle has pointed out. "We've got her to play with us. For a child, that goes a long way toward building trust."

But before Bae can trot off, two hulking figures approach from the cookfire, bearing trays. Rumple recognizes the bear coat immediately and hauls himself to his feet. "Father!" Belle exclaims, delighted for the diversion, and Rumple bows as the King and General Darain come into hailing distance. In the background, he can see the soldiers turn to stare as the two most important men in camp present the research team with the trays of hot food. "Thought you might be hungry." Maurice winks at his daughter.

Bae snaps to and darts off to locate a second log; a young private assists him in dragging it over to the cage.

"Father, thank you, and General Darain; that's so kind of you." She accepts her tray and settles back down on the log, easing it onto her knees. "Mmm, smells wonderful."

Rumple opens, closes and opens his mouth again as the General presents him with the second tray. He can't manage to get a word out.

"For you and the lad," Darain assures him. He nods at the log. "Sit. Eat."

Rumple can only obey. "Yes, sir." Bae hovers beside him, but when the King and the General seat themselves on the log he's fetched for them, he sits down beside his father. There are multiple plates on each tray; Rumple realizes this means that Darain and Maurice intend to eat with them, and he hands one of the plates to the General, who accepts it with a nod of thanks. Bae receives a plate too before Rumple settles back with the remaining meal.

Belle has already started to cut her food, and when Maurice reaches across to take the second plate from her tray, Rumple accepts this as a signal that it's proper for him to begin to eat now. He takes small bites, prepared to swallow quickly when Maurice asks him and Belle questions about their progress with the ogre. The senior men have much to ask, and Rumple finds himself relaxing a little as he focuses on the conversation.

"But still no words, huh?" Maurice gnaws his lip.

Belle shakes her head, poking at her food without enthusiasm. "But we won't give up. All babies want to talk. It's just a matter of finding the trick that will make their minds click."

"Talk to other ogres, maybe, but not to people." The King steals a carrot from Belle's plate.

Bae interjects, "She wants to talk to us, sire. I'm sure of it. She depends on my father and already she adores Be—the Princess."

Darain swings toward Rumple. "Do you agree with that assessment, Lieutenant? That she wants to talk?"

"Yes, sir. I think she's smart enough to realize it's her only hope for survival."

"Aye." The King says thoughtfully. "For our survival too, I'm afraid."

They talk comfortably long after the plates and cups are empty, and they wander over to the cage to observe the ogre as she too enjoys a lunch. Maurice even offers a peach from his pocket and after sniffing him up and down—then sniffing at Belle and seeming to sense the familial connection between father and daughter, just as she did with Bae and Rumple—Ely stretches her hand through the bars, palm open. The King raises an eyebrow at Belle, who explains, "She's waiting for you to drop it into her hand. She has better manners than to take it away from you."

"Well!" Maurice's other eyebrow shoots up. "Monsters with manners! Maybe not so monstrous after all." He releases the peach into Ely's hand and the ogre takes a few steps back. She sniffs at the peach, then licks it, then wrinkles her nose in distaste.

"She doesn't like peaches?" Maurice puzzles. "Fussy little lady, isn't she?" He smiles fondly at Belle. "Brings to mind another little lady who refused to eat her vegetables."

Belle laughs. "I learned better, didn't I, Papa? She will, too. Look; she's figured something out."

The ogre is picking at the peach in her palm. She's scraping her sharp nails through the fruit, slicing it open, and when it's in two pieces, she licks at the inside of each. Satisfied with the result, she sucks up the the juice and nibbles on the flesh. She spits out the large seed and when she reaches the furry rind, she considers her snack finished; she tosses it aside.

"So it's not the peach, it's the fuzz that she objects to," Darain comments. "Smart creature."

"Yes, sir, we think so," Rumple replies. "We think they may be nearly as smart as humans."

"Careful who you say that around, Lieutenant," the King cautions. "Some would consider that inflammatory. Almost sacrilegious."

"She has enemies here, yes, but no one will harm her," Darain argues. "Nor her trainers."

It's then that Rumple understands what's happened here. Maurice and Darain's decision to share lunch with them is meant as a signal to the troops, who occasionally cast glances their way: the leadership endorses their work and will brook no complaints about it.

Whatever he may say about his lack of social skills, Maurice has got a way with nonverbal communication. Rumple admires him for it—and wonders if it's a trick that can be learned, even, perhaps, by an old dog.

* * *

Belle is studying the sky. "It's a warm day, relatively. We should take advantage of it. How about a bath?"

Rumple's mouth falls open. He can think of multiple ways to interpret the suggestion, none of them exactly proper (and all of them will follow him to his tent tonight, making sleep a distant memory). "I, ah—"

She's frowning slightly, then when she catches on, she chuckles and strokes his arm. "For her, Rumple. I mean for Ely. It'll relax her and besides, she needs it." Her nose crinkles. "Babies love baths, don't they?"

"Oh! Yes, yes they do," Rumple recalls. "But we don't have a tub big enough, and the river is too cold."

"We have a horse trough. It'll do. And towels and soap, and I brought clothes for her. You and I and Bae can do this, together."

"You want to go into the cage," Rumple surmises, his voice flat.

"One step at a time, Rumple. If she shows any distress, I'll leave immediately. But I think she accepts me, and I think this will encourage her to bond with us."

"It's not her, it's the soldiers I'm worried about."

"My father promised we'd have whatever we need. We'll speak to Darain. On his order, no one will disturb us. It's a matter of responsibility, you see: we must look out for her health. She's a child and she's in our care."

She's already on her feet before he grants his consent. "It will do her some good," he sighs. "All right, let's find the General."

It takes a great deal of time and effort, but by mid-afternoon a trough and a cauldron of warm water have been sledded into the cage, just inside the gate—the soldiers pulling the sled in refuse to go any farther in than necessary. Belle carries in a basket of sponges and soaps, while Bae, marching in without hesitation, carries towels. Captain Fendral, carrying only his sword, flanks the Princess. Darain and Maurice lean on the bars of the cage, the former with a bow slung casually over his shoulder (but Rumple has seen the man in action; in the blink of an eye, that bow can have released a perfectly aimed arrow). Similarly, Maurice, having shed his bear coat, wears a sword. With his size and age, he's slow, but his arm is powerful and Rumple would entrust him with Bae's life.

From his body language—smiling and chatting easily, leaning into the bars, hip-shot, resting a foot against the bottom-most rung—one would assume that Maurice is sending his daughter into a kennel to feed puppies. But Rumple knows better, having been in on the argument that ensued no more than a half-hour ago, in private, when Belle insisted that her presence in the cage is necessary; that she must be permitted to tend the ogre as a nurse would. "Remember, Father, she's a toddler, scared, abandoned, and for all we know, an orphan. Rumple and Bae and I are her only friends."

" _You_ must remember, Daughter, one swipe of her arm, even in play, and she could break your back. A few months older and she'd cheerfully make a meal of you."

"The least sign of roughness from her and I'll get out of the cage as fast as I can." Belle grasps Maurice's hands. "I need for her to see me as a nanny, someone she wants to follow. She has protectors, in Bae and Rumple, but a baby needs-"

"Don't say it, Belle," Maurice groans.

"A mother."

"Belle! That's an _ogre_!"

"A substitute mother."

"You are too brave for your own good." The shaggy head shakes heavily. "I can't permit this. Even if no harm comes of it, your mother would never forgive me if—"

"My mother would do the same thing I'm doing. Enraged Avonleans could be marching this way, calling for her blood. For this baby, for our people, for an end to the Ogre Wars, let me do whatever I can, anything I can to win Ely's trust and affection."

"I will go in with them," Darain says abruptly. "Her Highness will be safe, sire."

Tension melts from Maurice's shoulders, but before he can mull this suggestion over, Rumple intervenes. "Fendral. It should be Captain Fendral. Ely's used to him."

"Fendral, then," the General agrees. "Good swordsman."

Belle kneels beside her father to peer into his face. "Father, Bae is going into the cage. Do you think Rumple, who knows Ely better than any of us, would allow that, if he had any doubts?"

"At the first sign of trouble—"

"Yes, I promise. At the first sign."

A half-hour later, the bath supplies have been rolled in and the bath team stands in the center of the cage. The ogre, in her favorite corner, has clambered to her feet and stands shivering, sniffing.

"Ely," Rumple calls to her, making his tone casual, as though bathing an ogre is an everyday chore for him. "Bath time, Ely."

Her head swings in Fendral's direction and she presses her back to the bars.

"She's scared," Belle whispers.

"Ely, this is Fendral. He's a friend. And you already know Belle."

The ogre whines uncertainly.

"Sheathe your sword," Rumple advises Fendral.

"She can't see it—"

"She knows. I don't know how. Put it away."

Fendral has made dozens of snap decisions during his career, decisions that could result in life or death. In the week of her capture, he's seen no hostility in this creature, but in five years of warfare he's yet to meet an ogre he can trust. He has, then, only Rumplestiltskin's word to counteract his experience with these beasts. And the knowledge that while he's not the strongest, he's definitely the fastest swordsman in His Majesty's Home Guard. He sheathes the sword and hooks his thumbs in his belt, just inches from the weapon.

Looking back on this moment, years later, Rumple will consider it a milestone in his personal life: his son, his beloved and his friend believed in him enough to stand beside him in this cage, facing a creature they've been conditioned to see as a monster—all on his say-so.

He steps forward, calling out again. "Ely, we're going to give you a bath. Warm water, soft towels, sweet soap."

"And you can splash in the water all you want. You're going to love it," Bae assures her, also stepping forward. "I always did."

Rumple shoots him a skeptical look.

"When I was your age," Bae amends.

"And I have something for you to play with in your bath." Belle sets her basket down so she can dig out the crude wooden duck that Bae had carved while waiting for the water to heat. She holds it out toward Ely, but the ogre makes no move toward it. Belle is disappointed until she recalls, "Oh. I tend to forget you can't see."

"Ely, pear." Rumple announces, and the ogre immediately reaches out, her palm open. When she's been supplied with her treat, she smiles and bites into it.

"Let's prepare the bath." Pushing and pulling, the four of them get the trough off the sled, then tackle the caldron. There's only enough water to provide two inches of bath, but by the time the cauldron has been emptied, the humans are panting and sweating and longing for their own baths.

"Come, Ely, time to wash," Belle urges. She holds her hand out in invitation. "I'll sing to you while we wash you."

"It's gonna feel great, Ely," Bae chimes in, splashing his hand in the warm water.

The ogre is licking pear juice from her hands. She doesn't like to be sticky; after finishing a meal, she will seek water to wash her hands. And now as her brow wrinkles in frustration as her tongue labors to remove the stickiness from her fingers, Rumple speaks softly. "Come, Ely, let's wash your hands." He splashes in the water too. "Come. Water, Ely."

Quietly, Belle walks up to the ogre and as the men beside her and those behind her watch in horror, she slips her hand into the ogre's. Darain, Maurice and the soldiers at the gate raise their weapons; Fendral's hand drops to his sheath. "Bath time, Ely." She tugs gently, and to the amazement of all, the ogre allows herself to be led. Rumple will comment later that the ogre seemed to _want_ to be led; he will recall how, as a small child, Bae enjoyed walking hand in hand with his papa. It had made him feel secure and valued.

Ely is smiling faintly and purring as Belle takes her to the trough, and when Belle kneels to splash the water, still holding her hand, Ely's nostrils quiver and her smile grows.

"I have a special surprise for you, baby," Belle says, releasing the ogre's hand; Ely's smile sinks. But Belle continues to chat with Ely about the treats to come as she digs around in her basket, and Ely overcomes her disappointment. "Here." Belle produces a jar from the depths of the basket. Unscrewing its lid, she dumps the entire contents into the water, then swishes around in the water.

"What the-?" Even Fendral is surprised as rainbow bubbles form in the water and float into the air.

"Bath salts," Belle explains triumphantly. "A gift from a visiting sultan who wished to court me last year." She blushes as she glances at Rumple. "But my heart was not mine to give away."

Ely is now crouching to splash in the water. Her nostrils flicker as she takes in the scents, which, from her expression, she finds wondrous. Her fingers rub against each other, sampling the texture of the bath salts. She needs no further persuasion: she swings her legs over the side of the trough and lowers herself in. Her eyes close briefly as she relishes the warm water, then she begins to splash joyously.

"Well, I'll be a flyin' monkey's uncle," Maurice can be heard to exclaim.

Belle giggles. "We probably should've taken her clothes off first."

Rumple positions himself on the other side of the makeshift tub and accepts a cloth and a bar of soap from Belle. "I remember once when Bae jumped into the bath fully clothed, boots and all. He said his clothes needed washing too."

"Papa—" Bae moans.

Belle answers. "I've often imagined what it would be like to give my own baby a bath. I just never figured she'd been six feet tall and two hundred pounds."

"Never mind them, Ely. Grown-ups like to embarrass kids." Bae kneels beside Belle and presses the duck into the ogre's hand. "Toy, Ely. You can play while we wash you."

Ely chews thoughtfully on the wood, then spits it out and has to pick a splinter out of her lip. While she's preoccupied, Rumple lathers the cloth as Belle does the same, and at the same time they begin to wash as much of the exposed skin as they can reach. With Bae washing her feet and Rumple and Belle scrubbing her arms and neck, she's in heaven. When Belle begins to sing for her, she leans back in the tub and purrs. She idly brings bubbles up to her nose to smell them and poke at them with her tongue. Rumple hates to disturb her when she's so relaxed, but he manages to get her shirt off of her so he can scrub her back.

Thoroughly wet themselves, they finish washing her and stand up. "All finished now," Belle says, but Ely doesn't budge. The water is still warm and the bath salts are still producing bubbles. She holds out her palm toward Belle.

"What do you want, Ely? Pear?" Bae guesses.

"Maybe she wants to wash herself." Belle gives her the soap and the washcloth.

Ely tosses the washcloth aside, smacking Bae in the face with it. He squeaks in protest as he wipes the soapy water from his eyes. The ogre ignores his complaints; instead, she's examining the soap, smelling it, rubbing her fingers over it—then popping it into her mouth. There's a sudden roar as she spits the soap out with such force that it lands in the snow.

The soldiers roar with laughter. "In all the battlefronts I've seen, in all my years of dealing with the enemy, I've never seen the like," Darain declares.

"If you're that hungry, I'll get you a pear." Rumple tries to be firm, but he can barely suppress his laughter.

"She doesn't want to get out of the bath," Bae observes. "What do we do now, Papa?"

Rumple dries himself off with one of the towels. "Let her sit until the water turns cold. Just like I did with you, back in the day, son."

"Papa!"

There's a strange smile on Belle's face as she reaches over to dry Ely's face: a smile of longing as well as amusement. Rumple thinks he knows what she's imaging, because he's imaging the same thing: a small tub of warm water on a rug beside a fireplace, and a mother and a father kneeling, just as he and Belle are now, on either side, their hands linked as they support their baby, who's splashing at bubbles and chewing on a toy duck.


	30. Conversations

The lids over her sightless eyes droop as she sits in her favorite corner, out of the humans' way as they clear away the remains of the bath. Belle has given her yet another gift, a ragdoll with button eyes and red wool hair and a stitched on smile; Belle's own smile wavers as she lays the doll in Ely's lap and carries one of the ogre's hands around to teach her the shape of the doll. "Doll, Ely. Our children love dolls. I wish you could see it," she says softly. "It will help you to know us." As the ogre purrs sleepily, Belle brings Ely's other hand around to teach her how to cradle the doll. Obligingly, Ely presses the doll to her chest, but before the men have finished cleaning the cage, the doll has dropped into her lap and Ely is sound asleep.

Belle drapes a blanket about the ogre's shoulders before walking out of the cage. Joining Rumple at the relocked gate, she slides her hand around his elbow and leans her head against his shoulder.

"All right, sweetheart?" He keeps his voice low. It's bad enough that the soldiers have seen her and him inseparable today; if they detected that their relationship might be more than a collaboration—might be more than it _can_ be—there could be a backlash.

He can feel her nod against his shoulder, then he hears her yawn. "It was a long ride from Bogamir."

"You should sleep. A tent's been erected for you, near the officers'. I'll come for you when Ely wakens up."

"And we'll try again." She releases his arm and walks away.

He watches her until she's faded into the tent. With his duties on hold for now, he figures he should assist in the work of the camp. With his cane, he's useless as a hunter, but he can forage; his knowledge of the medicinal and nutritional properties of wild plants got him and Bae through many a hard winter, in the years before Midnight changed their fortunes. A native of the Flatlands, he doesn't know these mountains, but Bae does, through his military training. Rumple calls his son over. "Let's take buckets and see what the land will provide, eh?" It's a phrase from the old days. He grins and Bae grins back.

"Like we used to," Bae agrees.

"Except this time, you will be the teacher and I'm the learner."

As they scavenge their way into the woods, filling buckets with whatever nuts and plants that Bae deems edible, Rumple beats back the embarrassment he feels at his failure to contribute to the needs of the camp. First he failed as a warrior, too weak and too nervous to even lift a sword; then he failed in the purpose His Majesty brought him here for, unable to wrangle a single human syllable from the ogre; and now he's failing as a provider, unable to hunt, since he can't hold a bow and a cane at the same time, and lacking sufficient knowledge of the local flora and fauna to select plants or set traps without instruction. At least, Rumple reminds himself, he's a pretty good fisherman. Maybe he can redeem himself later with a successful catch.

But Bae is talking, pointing out the likely locations of hidden nuts, so Rumple ignores his inner critic and concentrates on the lesson. When he forgets about his own deficiencies, his heart swells with pride for all that Bae knows, all that Bae has become since leaving home. As much as Rumple dreads the danger that lies ahead after Bae enlists in the army, he must admit, the boy—no, the _young man_ —is thriving. He's in his element. He's where the Fates intend him to be, and someday, he'll make a contribution to Aramore that will last beyond his years in this life. The child has found his place in the world: the father can't argue against that. So Rumple bends, as best he's able, to brush aside snow and leaves to uncover acorns ("We can make coffee and flour with these," Bae is saying) for his basket and he listens intently as the lessons move to a discussion of pine nuts and needles. When Bae scrambles up a tree, Rumple nods at him. "I'm proud of you, son."

Bae is still enough a boy to need such praise. "Thanks, Papa." Then he surprises both of them by adding, "I'm proud of you too."

* * *

Maurice is waiting when the Stiltskin men return with bucketsful of nuts and needles. "Gentlemen," he greets them, "I see we'll have acorn coffee and white pine tea with dinner tonight. The troops will welcome having a choice."

"Aye, sire, and Captain Fendral has a tasty recipe for pine nut bread," Bae acknowledges.

"Good job. Squire, suppose I could have a word in private with your father?" Not that there's any question of what Bae's answer would be, but Maurice appreciates both his guardsmen and the father-child relationship, so he gives them the respect of etiquette.

Bae gives a quick bow, then adjusts the two buckets he's carrying so that he can take Rumple's bucket. "I'll find the Captain so we'll get the bread started."

"Thank you, son, for the lessons." Rumple watches him trot off, then shifts his attention to Maurice, who, with an outstretched hand, is inviting him into the officers' tent. He follows the King inside the warm shelter, where both men slip out of their coats. Maurice offers him a seat and a cup of tea. It's a strange feeling, to have your tea poured by a King, and Rumple wonders if he should have offered to do the pouring himself, but Maurice is talking as he pours, and wouldn't it be even more impolite to interrupt?

"Belle is still asleep. If she hasn't waked by suppertime, I'll rouse her, but for now, she needs the rest. She's a strong girl, but more so in spirit than in body." Maurice waves vaguely at their surroundings. "She's not used to the thin air and rugged living." He sips his tea thoughtfully.

"Aye, sire." Rumple also takes a sip. The warmth courses through his veins, giving him a little shot of courage. "Are you thinking of sending her back early?"

"No. Yes," the King admits. "But, I mean, I won't. I won't break a bargain. I'd never hear the end of it, if I did." Abruptly he seems to change topics. "Did Belle ever tell you how I met her mother?"

"No, sire. Just that her mother was the daughter of a landowner."

"A _wealthy_ landowner. Wealthier, in fact, than any two bluebloods combined. And the land straddles two kingdoms, mine and Midas'. So when it came time for me to take a bride, it wasn't considered _too_ improper for me to consider Colette. There were a great many more. . . traditionally suitable, shall we say? Including princesses with whom an alliance would be politic. But at the time, Aramore needed wealth just as much, so my father was willing to allow me to cast a wide net. He himself had been a commoner, you know. Well, I'd heard of Colette, heard she was as gentle as a spring rain, as sweet as honey, as sturdy as a mountain flower, as well as lovely, of course. So under the excuse of a hunting excursion, I visited her father. I saw for myself the reports were true. She was everything I'd been told she was, and something more. But I had to be sure. . . .As you know, a royal when he marries has far more than his own desires to take into consideration. He needs more than a wife; he needs a queen. And that, Lieutenant, is more than just coming from the right stock and having the right upbringing. Not that it's not important to know which frock to wear for which occasion, and who to curtsey to; though I barely know such things myself, I acknowledge their importance. Keeping up appearances helps to satisfy expectations. It reassures the public that all is in order." He shoots a frown at Rumple. "And public confidence must never be underestimated. It's a fragile thing, easily swept by any passing breeze, and once it's lost, it's impossible to regain. The loss of public confidence is the greatest secret threat to a monarch. It opens the door to foreign and domestic enemies."

"Aye, sire." Rumple lowers his head. He thinks he can foresee where this conversation is going, and he's quite in agreement—but Maurice is preaching to the choir. It's Belle that Maurice must convince, not Rumple, that this ever-growing affection between the couple must be terminated.

"My Colette, she was a commoner, but there was no woman better suited to the role of Queen of Aramore." A fond smile creeps onto the King's face. "I learned that the first time she came to court. My mother held a ball, with Colette's family as the guests of honor, under the guise, you see, of honoring her father for contributing so much to the First Ogres War. But it was really a test, and Colette knew it, and she rose above it. That night. . . " he pauses to sigh. "That night she was _royal_ in all but blood. Her manners were flawless, her demeanor unshakeable, her dress understated elegance, her beauty unsurpassed. Every woman there knew it. None of them, no matter how blue their blood, was worthy of carrying the train of her gown. And when the snobs came after her with their verbal knives, she dodged their daggers as easily as if she was batting away mosquitos. With my rough edges and clumsiness, I couldn't keep pace with her, but she forgave me. She still does. And to my credit, though I'm rather dull-witted in the ways of society, I'm smart enough to know a natural born queen when I meet one. That night I asked her to stand by my side, and to lead me; and, I admit it, give me the weapons I need to protect my throne against those smiling sycophantic devils."

"The gray men," Rumple murmurs. "That's what Belle calls them."

"An appropriate descriptor. I know how Belle gets along with them; it's one of the weaknesses she's inherited from me."

"But she knows the law and how to use it for the good of the people. She knows how to lead. She got those qualities from you."

"So she did." The King raises his mug in a salute of thanks. "The people will follow her in confidence, in times of strife as well as peace. But the bluebloods, in our land and abroad, they must be led too. From behind. Subtlety is not Belle's strong suit. She can be patient, but compromise comes hard to her, especially when it infringes upon what she considers to be matters of justice. She's young in that way; she still sees things as black or white. And she'll jump in with both feet, heedless of her own safety. Like her father." He smiles sheepishly into his mug. "Except I had Colette to reel me in, or to fish me out when I jumped in too deep."

"A remarkable woman," Rumple murmurs.

"What I'm leading up to, Lieutenant—what you do with thread, you can do with people. You have a subtle touch and a patience that Belle lacks—but that she needs, just like I need her mother. You don't see that in yourself, I know." He raised a hand to stay Rumple's objection. "But I see it in how you handle that ogre. You won its trust. And through the ogre, you're winning over some of the troops. Not all, I admit. No one ever wins them all, not even Colette. But the ones that count, like Darain and Fendral. The most important thing, Rumple, is you've won Belle over. She'll be better and the kingdom will be better if she has you at her side."

"But the gray men—"

"About them. I owe you an apology. That dinner with them, Colette and I meant it as a test. We wanted to see if you would stand up to them. We were the ones that failed, though. Throwing you into that ocean of bluebloods—it was the same sort of test as the ball, we thought, but while the ball played into Colette's strengths, highbrow social events aren't the right kind of place for your strengths to go to work. We were forgetting that you're a spinner. You manipulate a few threads at a time. Slowly, winding them together, making them stronger together, making them yours. That's your power."

The King stands, and Rumple, stunned, automatically follows suit. "I won't sell you a bill of goods, though. You had a look at our life. That's Belle's future; that's how it has to be. It has its pleasures, but there are plenty of annoyances. It's not for everyone. It's got on my nerves more times than I can count. But you're a patient man, and you've made sacrifices for your son, to let him follow his own destiny. You'll have to decide if you love Belle enough to make such sacrifices for her." He pats Rumple's shoulder. "So, the short of it is, if you took a notion to court my daughter, I wouldn't be adverse to it."

Before Rumple can answer—he has no idea how he would answer—the King has pushed aside the tent's flap and is walking out. "I'm hungry. I'm going to see if any that acorn bread is ready."

* * *

He doesn't know how much time has passed since Maurice vacated the tent. He only remembers sitting back down at the table, clutching at fragments of facts about ogres, as if they were flotsam from the shipwreck he's trying to pretend didn't just happen. Now, to do what's right for Belle and the kingdom, he's going to have to cross the wishes of two of his sovereigns. His own internal voice, reciting the science of ogres, can't drown out Maurice's. _Ogres are diurnal, like humans_. _They seem to require five or six hours of sleep per night_. "The people will follow her in confidence." _Ogres are omnivores, like humans. They eat fruits, vegetables and meat, including human flesh_. "Subtlety is not Belle's strong suit." _Their hides are thicker than ours, less sensitive to climate, though they still do feel cold and heat._ "She can be patient, but compromise comes hard to her." _They live in groups, though it is unknown whether the groups are formed from friendship or familial bonds or simple ties of convenience_. "What you do with thread, you can do with people." _Their young, like ours, seem to require several years of nurturing before becoming self-sufficient._ "You've won Belle over." _Besides the basic biological needs, they seem to have need for amusement and intellectual stimulation._ "She'll be better and the kingdom will be better if she has you at her side." _They seem to feel many of the same emotions we do: embarrassment, joy, frustration, humor. Love?_ "You'll have to decide if you love Belle enough." _They can be just as gentle as they are vicious. They have a need for the security of communal connections, even if it's with captors._ "You'll have to decide if you love Belle enough." _And yet, they seem incapable of communicating beyond their own species._ Like me, trying to communicate with the gray men, when all I have are primitive grunts and whines against their airy words. _They can learn, especially if motivated by affection, but their physical limitations must be taken into account. But they can learn, with the right teacher. With someone like Belle._ Can I learn, with the right teacher?

A curly head pops into the open space between the tent's flap and its front wall. "Belle's awake, Papa. She's playing ball with Ely. Thought you'd want to know." Bae's head retreats just as fast as it appeared.

He gathers his cane and makes his way across the rocky ground, moving slowly; his hesitancy isn't solely due to his fear of falling. "If you love Belle." Or, maybe it is: maybe he is afraid of falling. Maybe he already has.

Seated on a blanket on the ground, Belle is rolling the kickball back and forth through the cage bars. She's grinning and giggling like a little girl, and the ogre grins and giggles like a little girl too as she rolls the ball back. Ely's caught on to the game, learned how to listen for the soft whoosh of the ball as it slips across the snow and rolls toward her. She has to depend on her hearing, but Rumple doesn't find that so strange any more; it's no different, really, from the humans' dependence on their eyesight.

Rumple joins Maurice, who's standing beside Belle at the cage, leaning on the bars and watching the game. His Majesty still doesn't completely trust the beast; that's obvious in the tension in his shoulders, even though he's smiling easily. Every so often, he glances across the cage or to his right or left, assuring himself that ten armed guards are at the ready, just in case.

One large hand atop the ball to hold it steady, Ely raises her head and sniffs in Rumple's direction. Her grin expands and she purrs loudly before sending the ball back to Belle. The spin she adds to the ball before releasing it seems to signal a finality to the game, further indicated when Ely hauls herself to her feet and swings her head in Rumple's direction. Her playful grin gives way to raised eyebrows and a whimper.

"What's wrong, Ely?" Belle asks. "Did you miss Rumple?"

"Maybe she's hungry," Maurice suggests.

"She just had three pears." Belle gives her father an apologetic shrug. "I know it's too soon for her dinner, but babies need snacks after their naps. I'm a bit concerned about the limited foods we're feeding her here. I think if we're going to avoid rickets, we ought to start feeding her small amounts of fish."

Maurice's eyebrows crash together. "I don't like the idea of feeding her meat, lest she start to develop a taste for something more. . . sophisticated."

"Mushrooms," Rumple blurts. "In the winter, when we can't get fish, we feed our children mushrooms. And cheese, when we can't get milk. It prevents bow legs." He doesn't explain who _we_ is. The peasantry can't afford books and schools, but perhaps they know a few things the rich don't, about survival.

"We still have a supply of cheese," Maurice recalls. "We'll start adding slice of it a day to her diet. And tomorrow, when the squires go out to forage, they can dig up some mushrooms." He grins wryly. "Can't have a bow-legged ogre in our care, can we?"

Caught up in this nutritional analysis, they've become distracted. Ely has waited patiently with her little begging face and her soft whine, but she is just a baby and has the patience of one. She now stomps her bandaged foot and thrusts her hand through the bars of the cage, her open palm a request. The three humans finally take notice. A two-toned rumble issues from deep in her throat.

"Another pear?" Rumple guesses, and he picks one up from the little supply on Belle's blanket. But when he drops it into the ogre's palm, she rolls it right back at him. "Peach?" he guesses again, but she rejects that offering too, stomping her foot once again and making that rumbling sound.

Maurice is now involved in the guessing game. "Maybe she wants bread. I'll go find her some." But as he starts to walk away, Ely stamps her foot a third time and repeats her rumble. Maurice chuckles. "I think she likes me. She doesn't want me to leave."

Belle twinkles at him. "Babies love their grandpas."

Rumple spares a moment to appreciate the affectionate humor between father and daughter, but Ely doesn't: she's still stamping and rumbling, frustrated now; her two bottom teeth are bared. "Baby, indeed," Maurice blinks. "She's having a temper tantrum. I raised three children; I know a tantrum when I see one."

As much as he would love to ask about some of Belle's more memorable childhood temper tantrums, Rumple resumes chasing after a distant thought that feels very important. . . . "Wait. Listen." He raises a cautionary hand—rude though it is to interrupt his sovereigns.

"What is it, Rumple?" Belle asks softly.

"She's made that same sound five times now."

They all stop to concentrate on Ely's rumbles. Her eyes widening, Belle clambers to her feet and exclaims, "How self-centered and egotistical we've been! Oh, Ely, pardon us!" And before either of the men can ask for an explanation, she's run off to the cookfire. Puzzled, the men look after her; aggravated, the ogre bellows.

But it's not long before Belle, with Bae in tow, dragging a cart full of goodies, returns. She rushes right up to the cage—her father grasps the hilt of his sword and the guards ready their weapons as well. Despite having a human run up to her, Ely seems more relaxed now, her nostrils flashing as she takes in the new scents of Bae and the contents of his cart. Belle calms herself, smooths her tunic, then takes a deep breath and imitates the two-toned noise that Ely had made earlier.

Ely bounces on her toes and repeats that noise.

"Yes! Yes, Ely!" Belle has to catch her breath. She makes the sound again and holds out a loaf of bread.

"What's happening?" Maurice whispers; Rumple whispers back, "Communication, I think."

Ely pushes the bread away and repeats her request.

Belle imitates the sound and holds out a wheel of cheese. It's rejected, gently, and Ely's request is repeated. Belle repeats the sound and offers a pan of water.

Ely is ecstatic. She's jumping up and down, tossing her head and laughing, until she finally settles down and accepts the pan. She makes her two-toned sound again, then, purring, gulps down the water. She holds the pan out through the cage bars, but before she can utter her request, Belle is making the sound and refilling the pan. As Ely sips, more ladylike this time, Belle turns amazed eyes to Bae. "Water! Write it down, Bae." She makes the sound.

Bae scrambles for his father's notebook, but once the pen is in his hand, he shrugs. "How do you spell aaahhh—guggg?"

Belle is struck with inspiration. "Music! Papa, is there a musician in camp?"

"Well, Captain Terbor plays fiddle, and one of the corporals has a mouth harp—"

"But who can write music?" She spins on Bae. "Bae, go ask around. Find someone who can write musical notation. We're going to create the world's first Ogre dictionary."

"Yes, ma'am!" Bae is off like a shot.

Maurice bends his head toward Rumple. "What just happened?"

Rumple chuckles. "I think Belle just fulfilled her end of the bargain. You're going to have to let her stay."

* * *

They're huddled together in Belle's tent, a pair of lanterns casting beams of light that cut through the shadows. No one, not even Rumple, is giving a second thought to the propriety of a man alone in a tent with the Princess. Outside, the excited chatter of the camp fills the night; the ogre-haters have turned a new leaf and are just as thrilled by the afternoon's breakthrough. A breeze carries in mouth-watering scents from the cookfire, and Belle's stomach growls, making her blush. Bae, Darain and Maurice are out there, awaiting the meat to be sliced so they can load plates and fill mugs with pine-needle tea. Soon enough, they'll barrel into the tent with every hand filled, bringing the bounty to share with the Ogre Experts.

For the present, however, Rumple and Belle are alone. Their heads are bent over the notes Captain Terbor has taken. Neither of them can read the musical notes, so until they come up with another system, they'll have to depend upon their own memories and Terbor's musical skills for this dictionary to be useful. They don't mind, though. Not one bit.

"How many words do we have?" It's difficult to concentrate, here in the warmth and privacy of the tent, with the shadows creeping in, and with Belle's soft cheek just inches from his lips.

Belle's finger slides down the list. "Fourteen. Mostly nouns, but a few verbs. I'm not sure but I think we have one adjective too." She makes a guttural sound. "This one. She used it for the ball, but it's so close to her word for 'rock' that I think this word"—she makes that sound again—"must mean something like 'soft rock' or 'play rock.'" Her voice slows and grows fainter as she speaks; her eyes stray to his lips. There's a shine in her eyes that draws him closer. As he leans in just a little, her eyelids lower.

He swallows hard. "Belle."

Her hand leaves the dictionary to rest over his. "We've done well, haven't we, Rumple?"

"You," he insists. "You figured it out. You're the smartest woman I've ever—" A sudden sigh cuts off his compliment. "Belle."

"We make a grand team, don't we, Rumple?" Her smile wavers.

"We—" He gulps, then before he can realize what he's doing, his arms have captured her waist and drawn her close. She makes a pleased little sound that's he's pretty sure has nothing to do with Ogre and her hands slide up his chest to his shoulders. He brushes his lips against her hair, then her cheek, then her ear, murmuring her name. It's the only word he can manage, but it expresses his feeling perfectly, so he repeats it. She lifts her face just a little; that's invitation enough. His first kiss is modest; the second makes his wishes clear.

When she pulls away to catch her breath, her lips are swollen. "We," she agrees. "That's how it should be. We." The third kiss is hers.

Footfalls and voices interrupt the fourth kiss. Dinner arrives, along with laughter and praise for the success of the day. As they sit across from one another, plates and mugs and notes between them, Belle and Rumple are oddly silent. Maurice and Darain don't notice; they're busy making plans for convincing Ely to take them to her king. But just because they're short on words doesn't mean the Princess and the Spinner aren't communicating. Their secret smiles speak for them.


	31. Fathers and Daughters

Carrying the dirty dishes to the wash station is a perfect excuse to grab a moment alone with Belle. Darain and Maurice don't even glance up from their maps as Rumple rises and begins to collect the plates; with a sly smile, Belle catches on and scoops up the mugs. "Let me help, Lieutenant. It must be difficult for you to manage, with your cane."

Ashamed as he is already, the reminder of his lameness only stiffens his resolve for what he must do. "You're right," he mumbles, awkwardly balancing the plates in one hand as he picks up his cane with the other. Belle's smile vanishes as they leave the tent. "Rumple, did I offend you? I didn't mean—"

"No, I'm the one in the wrong. I should never have—" he lowers his voice. "I took advantage of you."

"Do you mean, the kiss?" She blushes.

"It was. . . forward and ungentlemanly and misleading. I'm sorry." He needs to say more, but the words keep slipping away from him, like his boots in the snow, and he's losing his footing figuratively as well as literally.

"I'm not," Belle answers stubbornly. "I liked it. I wish you'd kiss me again. And what do you mean, 'misleading'?"

"Belle, how I feel about you, how I think we feel about each other—it's a mistake. I'm not—"

"Your Highness! Papa! Let me get those for you." Bae comes trotting up, putting an abrupt end to the apology. He takes the dishes from Belle, casting a puzzled glance between her and Rumple as the two of them suddenly stop talking and turn away from each other. A question is forming in his eyes but he understands enough of romance to realize he has no business asking it. Besides, there is some important news he's come to deliver. "Excuse me, Your Highness. I think you two ought to have a look at Ely. She's acting strange."

Rumple sets his dishes into Bae's arms. "Is she sick?"

"I don't think so." Bae tilts his body to balance the new burden. "Agitated, I'd say."

Rumple starts in the direction of the cage, but Belle has to have an answer before she can drop their conversation. "Rumple, 'I'm not' what? What were you about to say? 'Not in love with you, Belle?' 'Not free to marry again?' Not what?"

Bae reddens and scuffs at the snow, pretending not to hear.

Rumple takes her by the elbows in a gesture of comfort. "I love you, Belle. But I'm not the right man for you. Not the kind of man you need." He releases her and walks to the cage.

He can hear her huff in frustration behind him; this conversation is far from over, but the anger that makes her footsteps snap as she catches up to him disappears as soon as they're in view of Ely. Their ward is, as Bae described, agitated, pacing, then suddenly stopping to grasp and shake the cage bars as she shifts from foot to foot, then resuming her pacing, all the while sniffing the breeze coming from the south and snorting, grunting, and whining.

"Something's going on," Rumple picks up his pace, headed for the gate. "Bae, go get His Majesty and the general." The guards are as worried as Ely seems to be, their weapons drawn. They talk in low voices. Some of them are watching the ogre closely, as if they expect a jailbreak, but others are squinting in the twilight, in the same direction Ely is focused on. At the gate, Rumple stops to glance at Belle, ready to urge her to seek cover, but the determination in the set of her mouth informs him any request that she leave would be pointless. She's the only one capable of speaking to the ogre, although her vocabulary is extremely limited. Her presence is necessary. Besides, what he would consider affectionate protectiveness, she would consider an insult to her abilities and her bravery. So he merely draws in a deep breath and orders the key keeper to unlock the cage so he can enter.

"Wait," Belle interrupts. "Let me talk to her first. Maybe I can find out what's wrong."

Rumple studies the ogre, whose head has swung in their direction. She's taking in their scent, and that calms her somewhat, but she's still bouncing from foot to foot. "You're right," he acquiesces.

Belle comes up to the gate; to their relief, Ely neither retreats nor approaches. There's a softness in the ogre's posture now that assures them she feels safer with them nearby, but there's a wildness in her sightless eyes that reminds them she is uncivilized, at least, by their standards, and potentially dangerous. Belle calls out in a series of grunts, growls and clicks. The ogre cocks her head to listen. "I wish we'd had more time," Belle grumbles. "I don't even know how to ask her 'what' or 'why.'"

Rumple slides a comforting arm around her waist. "Your voice alone is calming her. That you're speaking to her at all reminds her we're her friends."

Belle tries again, in a slower, gentler series of sounds. The ogre replies with a single grunt.

"She said 'ouch.'"

"Danger," Rumple surmises.

As the King and the general trot up, Belle addresses Ely again. "What's going on?" Maurice frets. "Belle?"

"We think she's trying—" Belle is interrupted by the ogre, who's growling and pointing south. Darain orders five of the guards to go and investigate—but not out of sight of the camp. The guards exchange a worried look but proceed together to the edge of the camp.

"She said 'Father.' I think," Belle translates.

"Does she mean me? Or maybe the Lieutenant," Maurice wonders. "She seems to think of him as a father figure."

"She was pointing into the woods when she said it," Rumple comments. "'Father' is out there somewhere."

"Her father," Maurice speculates. "Ogres." As Belle nods grimly, Maurice positions himself between Belle and the woods.

Darain speaks in a low voice to the nearest soldier. " Spread the word. We're going silent. Speak only when you have to, and then, in whispers. Fighting formation. Archers at the front." The soldier nods and creeps from guard to guard, whispering the general's instructions, and they move into formation without speaking, positioning themselves between the royals and the unseen threat. Darain need not remind them that ogres hunt by hearing.

Ely abruptly wheels about and howls toward the north. A shriek from deep in the woods splits the air. The camp explodes in noise: crashing, as trees are brought down; thunderous pounding, as heavy feet come running from all directions; animalistic roars and human screams and shouts as the attack begins. Backlit by orange light from the campfire, a huge, wild-eyed, open-mawed face suddenly emerges from the black night. Rumple's feet are frozen in place and his legs tremble as his focus fixes on the slathering lips and dagger-sharp yellow teeth. He casts his eyes about frantically to locate Bae; he finds his son standing side by side with Fendral as the two of them face off against a second approaching ogre.

To his right, metal flashes as Darain raises his sword and shouts, "Swordsmen, protect the archers! Archers, take aim! You'll get only one shot!" The general sets himself between the King and the largest ogre, who's approaching strangely slowly, as if completely confident that the battle is already won. A blast of hot air nearly knocks Rumple off his feet as the ogre unhinges his jaw and bellows.

And then the ogre swings his head in Belle's direction.

It's pointless, he knows that, but instinctively Rumple slaps his hip in search of a sword that he's never worn. He hasn't so much as a fishing knife, but he does have a body, and that, at least, may distract the ogre from the object of its attention. He's fully aware that the ogre can send him flying with a single backhand, but perhaps that will be enough. He throws himself in front of Belle, shouting, "Belle! Run!" He grasps her shoulder with the intention of pushing her to urge her to escape, but a glance behind him reveals there is no escape: they're surrounded by beasts. Belle hastily bends to grab the only weapon she can find, a fist-sized rock; Rumple balances on his good leg and raises his cane chest-high, a hand on each end of it. When the ogre is close enough, Rumple will thrust the end of his cane into the ogre's throat.

Behind them, metal shrieks as it's ripped apart and heavy feet slap against the snow. The situation is hopeless: a hasty glance behind informs him they're being attacked from behind, with three ogres already ripping open the bars of Ely's cage. Swinging back to the front, he presses closer to Belle, assuring himself of her continuing presence by connecting his shoulder to hers. His face twisted in anxiety, Rumple tears his eyes from those saliva-dripping lips toward Belle's fire-lit face. Her eyes are hard; her features are set. She's going to go down fighting. He's determined that her last memory of him will be as a fighter, too.

The huge hairless head lowers as a clawed fist as big as Rumple's head raises a club. Rumple tightens his grip on his cane. He wants his last words to his beloved to be profound, so that years from now, if she survives, when she's sitting beside the window in her library, a forgotten book on her lap, and she stares out into the darkness, she'll hear his voice and will have something worth remembering of him. But his mind is as frozen as his feet; all he can manage is, "Belle."

"I know," she assures him. "I love you too."

Behind them, an ogre roars, twice.

Rumple blinks. The voice is familiar; the sound it's making is familiar. His mind automatically translates it: "STOP! BAD!" He risks a backward glance and nearly loses his balance as the scent of pears and roses— _rose-scented bath salts_ —fills his nostrils. "Ely! Belle, it's Ely!"

The youngest ogre is running toward them, leaving behind in her wake the three who released her and the mangled remains of her cage. Bizarrely, a laugh rises from Rumple's chest, but he quickly swallows it as Ely throws her arms open and scoops Belle against her body. "Ely, no!" He raises his cane like a club to smack Ely, to force her to drop Belle before the Princess is crushed—or worse.

But he's misunderstood. Ely twists at the waist and lowers Belle behind her, making a shield of her own considerable body as the attacking ogre storms in within striking range. Again, Ely roars at the attacker: "NO! MY MAMA!"

The attacker stops in his tracks. His nostrils quiver as his head shifts in Ely's direction. Ely roars again and stomps her foot. The attacker suddenly stills, his fist falling to his side, his hide shuddering. From his throat issues a soft rumble that Rumple recognizes as an expression of puzzlement. He's heard that rumble, many times, whenever he and Belle introduced something new to Ely.

The large ogre throws his head back and growls, and suddenly from all directions ogres emerge from the woods and stand quietly, listening and taking in scents. Seemingly satisfied, the large ogre turns his attention back to Ely.

Ely's tone softens as she grunts words Rumple has never heard before. One of her big hands remains on Belle's shoulder, as a warning, he thinks, to the other ogres to leave Belle alone. A conversation of grunts, growls, purrs and clicks ensues between the largest ogre and Ely. Belle can't translate any of it, except "Father. She's calling him father."

"He's her father," Maurice breathes.

One final burst of anger is expressed in the large ogre's snarl, but Ely's response soothes him. When he calms, Ely ducks her head toward Belle's. A silent communication passes between the two females as Belle stokes Ely's face and in turn, the ogre rests her head on the Princess' shoulder.

While Darain's attention remains locked on the large ogre, Maurice, lowering his sword, shifts toward Rumple. "What are they saying?"

Rumple can only make out one word. "'Go.'"

Over her shoulder, Belle explains, "Her father has come for her. We have to let her go."

"Sire," Terbor objects, "that ogre is our bargaining chip."

"There's no treaty without her. No hope of communicating with her king." Maurice is on the verge of prohibiting his prisoner's release, but Belle insists, "Papa, you wouldn't keep a daughter from her father."

"I think we _are_ communicating. Letting her go will be our offer of a treaty," Rumple suggests, watching the large ogre with a wary eye.

"It'll be slaughter if we don't let her go," Darain points out.

"But peace if we do," Belle adds. "Let her go home, Papa."

Maurice is a stubborn man, but he counts at least fifteen ogres lining the edges of the camp, not to mention the three behind Ely, and who knows how many are waiting in the woods. He addresses the big ogre. "She belongs with you."

The ogre growls, not understanding, of course, but taking it as a threat that the human is speaking to him. Ely knows better, however. She purrs and affectionately pats Maurice on the head as His Majesty instructs her, "Go home, Ely."

With a quivering smile, the baby ogre thrusts her open palm toward Rumple. He has no fruit at hand to offer, but he unwraps the scarf from his throat and lays it in her palm as a goodbye gift; the ogre brings it to her nose to sniff before wrapping it around her own throat.

Even many years later, Rumple will remember every detail of this moment, including the tear streaking down Ely's cheek and the burning sensation in his own throat. When as an old man he will tell this story, he will shake his head in amazement that somehow, he came to care about a man-eating monster.

"Be good out there, little girl," he says. "Thank you." Then she throws her overpowering arms around both Rumple and Belle, sweeping them off their feet and into her embrace. "Oh, Ely, I'll miss you." Belle's eyes shimmer as she returns the ogre's hug. She presses her lips against the ogre's cheek, and with a messy smacking noise Ely kisses her back, then kisses Rumple.

The sky suddenly goes white, as if a hundred lighting strikes have hit at once. Rumple feels the earth shake under his feet and his body is consumed with a softly vibrating warmth. He's dizzy and disoriented, his senses deadened, but the ogre whimpers as he loses consciousness and slumps to the ground.

* * *

He's still dizzy and a bit nauseated when his senses slowly return, his hearing clearing first. Along with purring, he can hear a faint "Rumple?" and "Darain, what just happened?" Shadows form shapes in the light creeping in beneath his eyelids. He breathes deeply and slowly, then swallows, then pries his lids open to meet Belle's glazed blue eyes.

"Belle? Sweetheart, are you all right?" He raises himself on his elbows. "Where's Bae?"

"Belle? Rum?" The ogre's voice is surprising high-pitched, but then again, she is just a baby—although no longer an ogre.

"Ely!" Belle gasps, and Rumple touches the now smooth and rosy cheek he kissed just moments ago. A big hand pats him back. "Ely, you're human!" Belle starts and stares. "A _very big_ human!"

"Rum's ouch!" Ely huffs, apparently annoyed that Belle's attention is focused on her instead of Rumple.

"You can talk! You can see!" Belle exclaims.

"Papa? You okay?" As Bae comes running to examine his father for injuries, Rumple struggles to sit up; Bae assists him. "You took a hit to the head, looks like, but it's just a scratch."

"I'm fine, just a bit muzzy," Rumple assures him, gripping his arm. "Are you?"

Bae grins. "Momentarily blinded, that's all. I guess I was far enough away from the blast of—whatever that was. You and Belle were in the midst of it. You rest here. Ely will look after you." He winks at the ex-ogre. "Won't you, girl? I'll bring you your medical kit and some water."

As he trots off, Ely kneels beside her caretaker, the earth shaking as her knees thud to the ground.

Rumple touches the bristly black hair framing the smiling moon face and the clear hazel eyes staring back at him. From her features, Ely does appear human, but in size she still hovers over Rumple and towers over Belle. She pats his head and inquires, "Hurt?" When she removes her hand from his head, she shows him a dab of blood on her finger.

"You're bleeding a little, but it's stopped already," Belle tears a bit of cloth from her tunic and dabs at his small wound. She draws in a cleansing breath. "What in the name of the seven civilized nations happened here?"

"Look, Belle." He sweeps his arm across the camp, where nineteen former ogres are blinking in confusion as they pick themselves up from the snow and shake their heavy heads.

"They've all changed," Belle catches her breath. "They aren't ogres any more."

Rumple recalls illustrations he once saw in a book. "They're giants."

They do indeed appear human, except for their height, and from the expressions on the soldiers' faces, they're a little harder to hate now. Add to that the common knowledge about giants—they're vegetarians who make their livings by farming or weaving and who spend their evenings painting, writing poetry and playing music—and the humans are thoroughly confused about what to feel now.

Ely's father is pressing a hand tightly against his head as he sways on his feet. "What happened?" Across the camp, ex-ogres groan and try to take in their surroundings. "What did we do?" Ely's father moans, surveying the remains of three humans. He shudders and draws into himself as the living soldiers pick themselves and their weapons up and come forward to assist their King, who's sputtering curses.

Rumple reaches through the haze in his brain for a faint memory. "Belle, wasn't there something in your library. . . legends of the origins of ogres?"

Belle is straightening her cloak, putting her thoughts as well as her clothes in order. "They were once giants, the writer speculated. But they sort of de-generated."

"A curse," Ely's father spits. "We were cursed."

As the humans start to gather protectively beside their King, Bae and Tristan return from the cookfire with medical kits and waterskins slung over their shoulders. Tristan serves Maurice and Darain first, but Bae, after some hesitation, approaches the giant king and silently holds out a waterskin to him.

The giant cocks his head in a familiar gesture. "You show kindness, after what we've done?"

"We've been no better," Bae admits, with a glance at his fellow soldiers. He suddenly points to the south, where an archer is taking aim at the stunned eyes of a half-conscious ex-ogre. "General!"

Darain wheels, takes in the scene in an instant and barks, "Corporal! Lower your weapon!"

"This is our chance, General." The archer nocks his arrow. "We can end this war right now, while they're still too woozy to fight."

"Lower your weapon or I'll do it for you!" Steel flashes as a dagger appears in Darain's hand.

The archer gapes at his superior, giving Fendral enough time to tackle him from behind, his arrow flopping uselessly on the ground and his bow cracking under the weight of two men. The Captain snaps an order to two guards who come running up, and the offender is hauled away to the officers' tent. As Fendral rises and brushes the snow from his uniform, Rumple gives him an approving nod, and the Captain nods back.

Maurice clears his throat and takes a step toward Ely's father. Darain is just a half-step behind, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I apologize for my man. Some of them are so young." He shrugs.

The giant bends his head in agreement. "The young can be extremely foolish." But he lifts his head and smiles as the ground shakes under his daughter's feet as she comes to his side. His hand brushes her cheek fondly, then his arms open and she sinks into them, pressing her wet face against his chest. "Father, father," she moans through her tears. He brushes her bristly hair back from her face. "Krea," he murmurs into her ear.

Her eyes shining, Belle leans into Rumple. "Krea! That's her name. Krea." She spares a smile for Bae, who's offering her and Rumple waterskins. "Thanks, Bae."

The giant lifts her head from her father's chest long enough to reply to Belle, "Ely too. I like Ely." Then she submerges herself in her father's arms once again.

"Since we're learning names." Maurice bows slightly to the giant. "I am Maurice, King of Aramore. This is Darain, the leader of my army. And _my_ daughter." He holds out his arm and Belle comes under it. "Belle."

The giant tips his head in response. "I am Janshai, elected leader of the Maelyss Tribe. You might say, a governor."

"Maelyss," Maurice samples the word. "You're a long way from home, sir."

"His home doesn't exist any more," Belle corrects. "It was destroyed a century ago."

Janshai ignores the side conversation and turns back to Maurice. "I should like to know, sir, are we your prisoners, or are you ours?"

Maurice guffaws, then, making a quick decision, thrusts his sword into the ground as a symbol of the end of fighting. "Let's say it's a draw, shall we? Come to the fire, you and your daughter, and share a meal with me and mine, and let's talk of peace."

A murmur ripples throughout the ex-ogre faction and Janshai's bushy eyebrows shoot up. As an indication of his acceptance of the offer, he tosses his tree-branch-turned-club off to the side. "Peace. A word I have not heard in many years." Still clutching Ely, he allows Maurice and Belle to lead him to the cookfire. Darain follows close by, as does the ex-ogre that appears to be Janshai's second-in-command.

"Rum too," Ely insists. "Rum saved me."

"Lieutenant," Maurice summons him. "We require your services. Maybe between us we can figure out what just happened."

And so it is, that, as the soldiers and the giants gather in tight clusters on opposite ends of the camp, and as Bae, Tristan and Fendral move slowly about, weaving between them with bandages, water and food, Rumple seats himself—awkwardly, for his ankle and his head are throbbing—beside Belle, and takes tea with giants.

It's a strange, strange world.


	32. Tea and Treaties

It takes three cauldrons to make enough tea for twenty-two humans and eighteen giants. Not even the mugs are big enough to hold more than two swallows for the giants; Tristan and Bae are kept busy refilling, and as the cold of night drops down, some of the soldiers offer blankets to their. . .guests. It's little more than a gesture, since the blankets are made for sleepers a third the size of these giants, but it's appreciated nonetheless. Gradually, as night wears on and after Janshai shares their story, the giants drift off into the darkness to sleep.

"There was once a mighty sorcerer," Janshai begins. "But in his opinion, not mighty enough. He wanted the magic that produced our portal beans. But rather than attempt to duplicate it, which would take much time and work, he decided to take it from us. Merdock the Mage, he was called in his younger years, but at the time he invaded our land, he was known as the Dark One. He plotted to take our magic the same way he had taken magic from his predecessor: by killing, without a second thought.

"He came in the night, as thieves usually do, as we were sleeping. First he slaughtered our guards with a single wave of his hand. Then he raided our gardens, stripping them of their beans. It wasn't enough for him to take our entire crop of beans. He demanded to take the magic that produced them too. He took one of our farmers prisoner and tortured him to try to force him to reveal the secret of the beans, but the farmer died protecting the magic. Enraged, Merdock proceeded to burn our homes, decimate our crops, and slaughter our people, but when only one of our tribes remained, he stopped. He would give us one last chance, he said, but we would not give him what he wanted. We knew that with the power of our magic, he could destroy entire realms. We chose to die as a family, our race extinct forever, rather than bow to his power lust. He summoned his magic to his hands in preparation to execute us, but his greed overtook his fury, and instead he cursed us, made us the murderous and vile beasts you called ogres. He would lift the curse if we acquiesced to his demands. And so we remained, doomed to kill and be killed, for three centuries. When we learned, a century ago, that another had killed Merdock and taken his power, we believed we were lost forever."

"Zoso," Belle whispers the name that shakes even her great courage to the core. "He ravaged our lands, unstoppable, for decades until Duke Cedric somehow managed to gain control of him, until Cedric was deposed for his questionable recruitment practices. The Duke drank away his sorrows—drank himself so silly, Zoso easily tricked him into releasing him."

"Zoso disappeared after that night," Maurice adds, "and reappeared in the Glass Mountains, from which he terrorizes the Easthaven Valley, a much richer land, these days, than Aramore."

"What, then, happened just now to break your curse?" Darain wonders.

Janshai lifts his massive shoulders. "I don't know. I believed, as all my tribe believed, that the curse was unbreakable."

Belle cocks her head and smiles at Ely, mirroring the child's favorite expression. "Legend has it that there is a magic stronger than the Dark One's, strong enough to overpower any and all magics: True Love. Maybe that magic saved us all today. Ely loves us, and we love her." Belle's voice grows firm, indicating that she will brook no argument on the matter, as she looks to Rumple and concludes, "And our love for each other surely amplified the power."

Rumple blushes and stares at the ground but nods in admission.

Janshai studies his daughter, who bubbles, "Love Belle! Love Rum!"

"Perhaps so," he says thoughtfully. "We have always believed that the purity of a child's love gives it great strength." He thinks on the matter a moment longer before deciding. "It must be so."

"We can learn from our children," Maurice suggests. "Let them lead by example. And let us behave the way loving parents should."

"We will treat for peace," Janshai agrees. "And so that our children can be proud of us, we will learn what we can about each other and try to understand. An exchange of ambassadors, Your Majesty."

"An excellent idea. Representatives from Aramore will go to live among your tribe, and your representatives will be welcomed into our court—as soon as we build a big enough castle," Maurice chuckles. Belle's eyes brighten as her lips part, but before she can speak, her father presses his fingers against her mouth. "No. Thank you for volunteering, Belle, but no. I need you at home to help me sell this idea to the gray men. You know as well as I do, it's going to be an uphill battle. So many of them are bent on revenge."

"But, Ely—"

"You can visit her. And when it's safe, when the clamor for revenge has died down, she can visit Avonlea."

There's still an argument in her eyes, but Maurice's brow draws down and her expression softens as he reminds her, "A daughter needs to be with her father—and a father needs to be with his daughter."

Surprisingly, Belle nods meekly. "Yes, father." Then she throws a sly smile in Rumple's direction. "We'll need some help with those gray men. Someone who witnessed the transformation today."

Rumple won't contradict her in front of her father, but he knows he's the wrong man for that job, entirely the wrong man. He must convince her of it later, when they're alone.

Maurice, thankfully, doesn't notice the unspoken conversation between his daughter and the spinner. The time has come at last for what he considers the most important act of his reign. He signals Tristan, who has already fetched paper and ink. "Governor Janshai, let's talk peace."

* * *

Voices quiet and slow their pace as the night wears on, and the notetakers—two for each side—express increasing difficulty in seeing in the dim light of lanterns and as a result, click their tongues over the mistakes they make in the transcription. They've gone past the generalities and deep into the specifics, and now even Janshai and Maurice are yawning and backtracking in slight confusion over what's been discussed and what hasn't. But the most important pieces of the treaty were agreed upon wholeheartedly at the start and neither side has wavered from them:

*The war is over. If anyone on either side raises a weapon or a fist against anyone on the other side, it will be recognized as an independent act, unsupported by and unacceptable to the leadership, and the aggressor will be handed over to the authorities on his/her own side for swift trial and punishment.

*History will record that neither side is the victor in this conflict, but rather, that in mutual agreement, both laid down their weapons with the intention of never picking them up again.

*With neither side the victor, no reparations will be paid, no lands or slaves taken.

*Instead, in the interest of fostering knowledge and cultural understanding, ambassadors will be exchanged, offered dual citizenship will full rights in their adopted home, and offered a home, a role in the adopted land's government, teaching opportunities, and learning opportunities. The duration of an ambassador assignment will be two years, after which the returning ambassadors will take up a place as advisors in their home country's government. The ambassadors will not be permitted use of weapons while in their adopted country, but will be provided bodyguards if necessary. Free, frequent and private communication between ambassadors and their home county's leadership will be expected and encouraged. Among the ambassadors will be farmers, who can share agricultural information; historians, politicians and lawyers who can share information of their native land's legal and governmental systems; and teachers, artists, musicians, storytellers and parents, who can teach the ways of their nation's culture.

*Within each land, talk of revenge against the other side's army, leadership or citizenry will be considered equivalent to talk of treason and will be punished accordingly.

*Gradually, as each nation gets back on its economic feet, trade agreements between the two nations will be established.

*Someday, though perhaps not in Maurice's and Janshai's lifetimes, either nation will feel free to call upon the other for financial or military aid in the event of natural disasters or attacks.

Maurice swipes at his crusty eyelashes as he peers up from Darain's notes. "Governor," he says softly, nodding at Janshai's lap, where Krea is resting her head, her button-eyed ragdoll tucked under her arm.

Janshai nods back. "I must admit, my own head grows foggy. Shall we resume our discussions in the morning?"

Maurice finds this entirely acceptable. "It should come as a surprise to no one that a decade's long war should take more than an evening to end." He rises and stretches, and a bleary-eyed Belle follows suit. "Besides, I'm so tired that I'm not sure I could remember how to spell my own name on this treaty."

A word from Janshai and his second-in-command, Baldwick, is setting aside his own notes to lift the snoring baby giant. Krea grunts and squirms as she's taken from her father's lap, but she's a heavy sleeper, as well Rumple knows, and Baldwick has only just adjusted her in his arms before she's pressed her face against his chest and is clutching his tunic. In the process she drops her ragdoll; Rumple retrieves it and slips in under her arm again. Baldwick looks at the spinner strangely. "Thank you." At Rumple's slight bow, he carries the governor's child off to a pallet that's been formed for her, on what has been, unspokenly, established as the giants' side of the camp.

Janshai lumbers to his feet. Peering down—but not stooping, as that would seem condescending—he too studies Rumple. "You were the one who found her, I understand. And gave her water."

Rumple hangs his head. In the interest of honesty, he's tempted to add _And helped make a prisoner of her._ But with a fifteen-foot being hovering over him, honesty takes a backseat to self-protection.

"And talked to her," Janshai continues, "to ease her fears, and sang to her, so she could sleep, and taught her, so she could adapt. As a father would."

It's coming; Rumple feels it. The accusation that he overstepped his bounds. Or worse, that he tricked Ely in order to imprison her. He swallows hard.

"This is your son?"

With wide eyes, Rumple follows the governor's pointing finger to Bae, who's on his knees, making a few corrections to his notes. Bae glances up and grins. "He's my papa. Smartest man in our village."

"You were born under a lucky star, young man. To have such a wise and kind father."

Rumple's head snaps up. Janshai is smiling. Sincerely. Gratefully. "Lieutenant Rumplesteen, I thank you for the care you showed my daughter."

"You're wel—it was my hon—" Rumple trips over his tongue.

Janshai bows to him, then to Maurice. "Good night." As the King bids him good night, the governor follows Baldwick to the fringes of the camp.

Maurice watches him go, then winks at Belle. "I think it's time we did the same."

"And guards, Your Majesty?" Darain wonders.

"I suppose you'll assign them anyway, for the sake of grumblers." Maurice watches the soldiers fade into the darkness to their tents. "But I doubt we need them."

Belle teeters on tiptoe, steadying herself with a hand against her father's chest so she can kiss his cheek. "Good night, Papa."

"Good night, my girl. I'm proud of you."

She dimples. Even an adult child still needs a parent's approval, Rumple observes; it's one of the things he feels he's done right in raising his own boy. Bae's never had to ask if his father was proud of him. "Thanks, Papa. I'm proud of you too—as my father and as my King." She carries her dimpled smile over to Rumple. "I'm going to my tent. Walk with me?"

"Of course." He reaches for his cane and Belle starts forward, but Maurice halts him, momentarily, with a hand to his sleeve.

"Lieutenant." The King pauses and searches for words. "He's right, you know. You are a good father, even when it's an ogre you're parenting. If the time should ever come. . . well, I don't think you'd do too badly, raising my grandchildren. Not too badly at all."

"I—ah—"

Belle, apparently realizing she's lost her escort, spins around. "Rumple? Are you coming?"

"I—ah—"

Maurice saves him from having to decide—or come up with an answer to the implied question of grandchildren. The King has walked away and is already speaking quietly to Darain. Rumple gathers his cane and his wits and trots to catch up to Belle.

He's stunned out of his weariness, stunned speechless, but Belle is not; she's ready to resume their conversation, as soon as they're out of earshot of anyone else. A trained debater—as a future ruler, she has been groomed in the ways of confrontation and negotiation since she was old enough to demand cake for dinner—as she's come to know him, she's come to understand that with one as perceptive and shy as Rumple, she has to sneak up on his fears before she can expose them and chase them away. She begins conversationally: "What we experienced tonight—the breaking of the curse, the end of the war—at the root of it all, I think, was simple, parental love. The love Janshai has for Ely, the love you have for Bae, the love my father has for me. The love you and I have for Ely."

"Perhaps so," he agrees, a little breathless as he struggles to keep up with her in the snow.

"But there were other forms of love at work tonight. Love that a leader feels for his people."

"Aye. There was that, certainly."

"And love that a couple feel for each other." She laces her fingers through his. "So many different kinds of love, all of them true, all of them powerful. How could a curse stand up against all that love?"

"Aye. It didn't." He casts a hasty glance at her, beginning to see where she's leading him.

"True Love is a rare thing, wouldn't you agree?"

"Too rare."

"It's a gift from the Fates, the legends say."

"So it's said."

"It would be an insult to refuse a gift, wouldn't it?"

He's sure of it now: she's challenging his reticence again. "Belle. . . ."

"Foolish, too, when that gift comes from the Fates."

He can't let her lead him into this argument. One of them—or both—will end up hurt. "Belle—"

"Are you going to try to deny it, that we have this gift? Are you going to say I'm some silly little girl who mistakes daydreams for reality?"

"No, but I—"

"Then are you going to claim you're the silly one? Because I don't see how you can possibly win this argument. As a scientist, you must admit, surely, we have the proof. That was True Love's magic; it couldn't have been anything else. I mean, you're no sorcerer, are you? And I've never cast a spell in my life. So the power that broke that curse could only have come from True Love. Deny that, if you can."

He stops and tries to express with his eyes how dangerous this conversation is, but he can't bring himself to look at her directly. Her chin is as high as he can focus his gaze. "I don't. I love you. I have no doubt in that. And you love me. If it was just us—But we have to think of Aramore. What the people need, I am not. I'm—"

"And don't think I didn't notice what you did when the ogres attacked, how you jumped in front of me to shield me from them."

"A reflex, not bravery, and ogres with clubs, not noblemen with their twisted words and their—"

"Gods!" She throws her arms in the air and rushes past him, seeking the privacy of her tent. She shouts back, careless of who might overhear, "Rumplestiltskin, sometimes you exasperate me!"

With a growl he snaps back, "Just for once, sweetheart, I wish you'd let me finish a sentence!"

* * *

He's stomping, as best he can with a cane, as he enters his tent. Bae's already there, tucked well in under piles of blankets and coats, but his eyes open and dance as Rumple tosses his cane aside, lumps down on his pallet, yanks off his boots and tosses them to wherever the cane went.

"Women, huh?"

Rumple can hear the laugh that Bae's holding back, but he could use a little support right now, and it's a nice thing, to talk man-to-man with his son. "Yeah. Women."

"Even when they're Princesses."

"Especially when they're Princesses."

Now they both chuckle.

"What are you gonna do, Papa?"

"I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

"You already know what I think."

Rumple looks over his shoulder, his tone pleading for understanding. "What she and I want doesn't matter. She has a kingdom to think about."

"Who's to say that what's good for Belle isn't good for Aramore?" At his father's lack of response, Bae presses smugly. "Are you assuming you know more about the kingdom's needs than she does? Or than the King does? I heard what he said tonight."

Under the pretext of removing his coat, Rumple turns his face away. "They're misjudging me. I'm a coward, Bae—they'd know that if they asked anyone I served with. But of course they can't because none of those men are alive. The fact that I am and they aren't is proof enough I'm not the man she thinks I am." He slaps his lame leg. "This is proof."

Bae's hand shoots out to grasp Rumple's sleeve. "Papa, that was almost twenty years ago."

"People don't change. Cowards don't change."

Bae sits up, his elbows on his knees as he reflects. "The army camp you were sent to when you were drafted. Where was that?"

"In the Andover Territory somewhere."

"So. . . two hundred miles from Ramsgate?"

"I guess so."

"And you walked all that way, on a busted ankle. Packed you off, I assume, they did, with no food and no medicine."

"Aye."

"Which took how long?"

"Twelve days."

"You walked all that way to get home to me."

Rumple shrugs; the reason is obvious to him. "You were my son. You needed me."

Bae tries again. "Papa. . . do you remember the winter after Mother left?"

"A hard winter. Set in early and spring was late in coming. Four people in the village died in the cold. Two died of starvation."

"But we didn't. You went out into the snow and fished and gathered whatever plants and nuts you could scrape up, and you traded whatever you could for wool so you could spin. I remember many a morning when I found you asleep at the wheel and half-froze. And when you caught two fish, you shared one with people who had nothing. And when influenza struck the carter's family, you went with Gretchen to take care of them. And when the winds eased up, you took your thread and walked to Avonlea to sell it. Three days going, three days back, because the snows were so deep."

"I earned half as much as usual. Far less than the thread was worth, and I was too afraid to speak up for myself."

"Do you know what I remember most about that winter? You brought back bread and cheese and a sack of dried apples so Gretchen could make me a birthday pie. For Yuletide, I had new boots."

"They weren't new. They were castoffs that Rulf had outgrown. I patched them."

"They felt like new to me. I was proud of them. I was proud of _you_ , because you provided them for me. It took me a while to realize it, but that wasn't the only winter that you skipped meals and gave up your blankets so I could go to bed warm and full. Don't you think I know what it cost you to raise me, especially in Ramsgate, especially after Mother left, when you were depressed and lonely?"

"And when people took satisfaction in the fact that the deserter had been deserted."

"Some did," Bae admits. "But you kept going. Whatever they said, to your face or behind your back. Whatever they did—cheat you, lie to you, steal from you, hit you. You'd pick yourself up and come home to me and hug me and pretend everything was okay, for my sake. Even a few weeks ago, at my bachelor party, when that bastard barkeeper cheated you with watered down ale. You could have had your satisfaction: Rulf and Fort would've slapped that bastard silly for you. But you chose the way of peace instead."

"Because I knew that bastard would find a way to get back at me as soon as I was alone," Rumple grunts.

"No. Because it wasn't worth fighting over and you knew the difference. You set an example for me then. Every day of my life, I've learned from you: patience, persistence, generosity, self-sacrifice, dignity, honor. I'm still learning from you." With a hand on his shoulder, Bae persuades Rumple to turn around. "You say you're proud of me, for the man I've grown up to be. Well, you were the one who raised me."

Rumple allows tears to form in his eyes.

"As far as bravery goes, there's not a man in the King's entire army who could go through all you did and still manage to put on a brave face for his son's sake. They're courageous, all right, but you're courageous in a different way. Maybe they stand up against noblemen and ogres without quaking, but you've stood up against _life_. Still do, even when it leaves you shaking like a leaf. If you think I'm brave out there on the battleground, it's because I learned from you that I can shake like a leaf and still do my duty, whether it's to my family or my country, because you always have. Always."

"Oh, Bae. . . "

The young man slips a comforting arm around his father's shaking shoulders and holds him while he cries. The young soldier feels no shame in his father's tears, only pride in his father's strength. He's come to learn, through his fellow soldiers, that sometimes it takes more strength for a man to open his heart than it does to lift a sword.

"I'd be proud to have her as a mother, even if she is a Princess."

That quip makes Rumple chuckle.

"But not nearly as proud as I'd be to tell her what kind of man she's getting, because I know you'll take every bit as good care of her as you have for me. That is, if you decide to marry her. The bravest thing you can do now is to decide what's right for you and her, not for anybody else, because at the end of the day, it's a man and a woman, needing each other, taking care of each other. Not a Princess and her consort."

"You're a wise man, Baelfire. And you've given me much to think about."

"Good." Bae lies back, smiling in satisfaction at the canvas overhead. "Good. Because I'm pretty sure I'm still going to need for you to be wise for me sometimes."


	33. Honey and Hope

For the first time since coming to the mountains, Rumple wakens before his son and tiptoes from the tent to the campfire. Fendral has already refilled the cauldron with water and Tristan has fetched firewood, so there will be tea for breakfast. Most of the soldiers, along with the giants, are still abed; those who are awake are huddled in the cold, the humans in their heavy coats, the giants making the best of the blankets they were given last night. The awakened are clustered in tight groups with their own kind, the humans standing over the campfire, the giants crouching at the edges of the camp, each side watching the other warily. Little conversation is taking place; in the stillness of the morning, voices will easily carry from one end of the camp to the other, and neither side trusts the other sufficiently to allow their thoughts to be heard by the enemy.

Fendral is the exception—and he will prove himself a role model this morning. "Gonna be another half-hour yet before the water's hot," he informs Rumple as he stokes the fire.

"Aye." Rumple's voice is husky and his mind fuzzy from sleep. He opens a sack stacked on a wood pallet and inspects the contents: yesterday the sack was filled with pine needles that he, the squires and several other soldiers had gathered, but it's half-empty now, having provided tea for giants last night. Rumple glances at the horizon, searching for signs of pink, but the night is clutching the sky tightly. As soon as dawn arrives, he'll go back out into the woods to replenish supplies. Wearily, he rubs his scruffy chin and eyes the giants, who are watching him and Fendral with mild interest. He gives them a slight nod in greeting, but they don't acknowledge him. He lowers his gaze to the fire and lets the dancing flames calm him.

"Soon as dawn breaks," Fendral suggests, "I'm going fishing. Found a spot on the southwest bend that's been lucky for me. You want to come?"

Rumple brightens. The thought of coming back to camp with meat, even if it is just fish, appeals far more than gathering needles and nuts. Both tasks matter, of course, but bringing back meat will make him feel like more of a provider. That's a feeling he's missed, since coming here. "I'd like that."

They let silence sit between them as they both listen to the burning wood pop. There's an unspoken respect between them, a trust, that Rumple suspects is attributable to their mutual concern for Bae, and when Fendral speaks again, that suspicion is confirmed. "Rumplestiltskin," Fendral begins—by referring to him by name rather than rank, the Captain is signaling a wish to speak man to man, as equals. "Something I want to ask you about. I'm going to volunteer to be one of the twenty."

He needn't say which twenty. Nor need he ask his question now: Rumple can easily surmise what it will be, and truthfully, Fendral need not ask: he's Bae's superior and has the right to command the boy. But Fendral's not the type of man to take away another's choices, particularly when civilians will be affected. "I'd like to ask Baelfire to come with me."

Rumple lets the idea sink in. As it does, he's flooded with emotions—gratitude that Fendral is giving them a choice, pride that Baelfire will be given such a large responsibility, fear for Baelfire's safety in the enemy's lands (surely the giants, like the humans, will crave justice for their dead), and overriding all, loneliness. His only child, the last of his family, will be leaving Aramore (for Rumple has no doubt Bae will leap at the chance) for two years. Of course the letters between them will be frequent and newsy, as they have been ever since Bae joined the Guard, but this time, Bae will be out of reach. There will be no monthly visits home. They will be separated for two full years, and when Bae finally returns, the relationship between them will be different: it will be the relationship of adults, a relationship of equals.

"I wanted to find out how you felt about that first," Fendral continues. "I know, if it was me. . . well. . . ."

"It's his choice. He'll ask me what I think, but he's going to want to go. I won't stand in the way." Rumple tries to smile. "Parents have lessons to learn, too. Figuring out when to let go is one of them. The hardest."

Fendral nods thoughtfully. "I'll look out for him."

"Goes without saying. You always have."

"If it's too dangerous, I'll send him back."

"I know you will. Just like I know he won't want to be sent back."

Fendral stirs the fire again and steam rises from the cauldron. It won't be too long now before the water boils. "Janshai was right, what he said to Baelfire. He _was_ born under a lucky star."

Rumple accepts the comment as a compliment. "Thanks. There is the matter of Morraine."

"His fiancée. Yes. She should have a say in this too. His Majesty will allow us all to take leave beforehand. Go home, tend to our personal affairs. Bae will get to talk to her then. If she wants to come—we'll need to get settled first, make sure it's safe, before she's allowed to come."

"Even if it is, homes will have to be built. Furniture, in human size."

"Just like His Majesty will have to do for their ambassadors. A month or two."

"It'll be spring then. Better time for her to travel."

Fendral ponders. "Do you think she'll want to come? Two years away from her home, her family and friends? Living in enemy territory?"

"They're not our enemy any more." Rumple glances out at the giants, oddly backlit now by the rising sun. "Their curse is broken. The giants of old were never violent."

"But now they have cause." Fendral clears his throat. "I'll keep him safe, to the best of my ability. Her too, if they decide she's to come with us."

"She will." A smile overtakes Rumple's face. "As long as her parents can be persuaded. She's like him in that way. Adventurous."

"Sun's almost up. Water's boiling. Want a cup, before we pick up our poles?"

* * *

When Fendral and Rumple return, two hours later, bearing fish, breakfast has already been served. The men are pleased to learn that Bae, along with two other soldiers, has gone out to gather plants, and two of the younger giants are accompanying them. It was Bae's idea to invite them, Belle reports with pride but no surprise: she's come to expect such largess from him, and she's just as proud as if she were a member of their family.

The men surrender their catch to be cleaned—inspired perhaps by Bae's act of forgiveness, the soldier who accepts the fish walks over to the edge of the camp, where several ex-ogres are still huddled, turns his knife out, handle first, and asks, "Anyone want to help? We can have fresh fish for lunch."

One of the giants starts to object, but another accepts the knife. "I will."

"But we don't eat—"

The second giant interrupts the protestor. "A good guest seeks to lessen the burden he causes his host. Perhaps some of you will gather firewood?" She rises and bows slightly for the human. "If you will please show me how you—" She waves her hand at the fish. "Prepare the fish."

"Sure."

Off near the officers' tent, Maurice, Darain, Janshai and Baldwick, along with notetakers, are seated at an odd, hastily thrown-together table. Half the table is human-sized; the other, big enough for the giants. Despite the disparity in size, the giants conduct themselves humbly; their movements are slow and careful, so as not to startle. The humans, even Maurice, are ever conscious of the danger that the difference in size poses. A sudden movement from one of the giants could injure a human.

"They started as soon as breakfast was over," Belle says. "They're ironing out the wrinkles now. By lunchtime, I think, we'll have a treaty."

"We're lucky to have a man like your father leading us," Rumple observes.

"And a man like Janshai leading them." Belle watches the negotiations with a twinkle in her eyes. "They found out during breakfast that they have a lot in common. A fascination with gadgets of all kinds, a fondness for epic poetry, an insatiable sweet tooth."

"And two very special daughters." Rumple squeezes her elbow fondly. "Where is she, by the way?"

"She went with some of the og—some of the giants, to the river, to take a bath." Belle giggles. "The giants are fanatical about grooming, it seems. They were quite dismayed to discover, this morning, that the desire for personal cleanliness was one the things the curse had robbed them of."

"I'm glad she's with her people again. I'll miss her, though."

"So will I. But it's temporary. A year or two from now, when it's safe, my father will permit me to go see her. In the meantime, I'll write her letters, and when I get home, I'll raid my closet for some of the toys and books I had when I was little. She seems especially fond of dolls." Belle strokes his forearm. "We did well with her, didn't we?"

"We did well. The hardest part of parenting—even if the parenting was just for a couple of weeks—is letting them go. It looks like I'll be losing Bae," he says abruptly. "Again. More permanently this time."

"He wants to go with the ambassadors. He was talking with my father about that. Papa said it was up to Captain Fendral. He can contribute a great deal, not just to Aramore, but all of humankind, if he goes. You raised a fine young man."

"He'll go," Rumple grumbles. "Fendral already asked." He draws in a deep breath. "I'm proud of him, but. . . I thought I had more time with him. I'm not ready to let him go."

"But you will." She peers up at him, studying the mix of loneliness, fear and pride in his eyes. "Because that's the kind of father you are. You put him first. He knows that, Rumple. I think he's always known."

Rumple shakes his head. "I'm selfish enough to want to hang onto him."

"You won't interfere. And when the time comes for him to let his child go, he'll remember your sacrifice. He'll live up to your example."

"Thank you, Belle." He coughs to release the emotion blocking his throat. Fendral has gone to the cookfire to ladle up leftovers; Rumple follows him with his eyes. "Excuse me. I'm going to get something to eat."

"There's some bread left, and one of the og—one of the giants found a beehive and brought us back some honey. I'll prepare you a cup of tea." She accompanies him to the campfire.

As she and the men speak idly, one of the smaller giants dares to approach, "I wonder if I—" he gestures to the cauldron.

"Yes, of course; let me." Belle prepares steaming mug for the giant. "A touch of honey?"

The giant nods. "I'm quite fond of honey. I kept bees. Before." He means _before the curse_ but he seems too embarrassed to say it, as though the curse were his fault somehow.

"We have a beekeeper at the castle. I like to watch her work. She talks to them and they seem to understand. I think she understands them too."

The giant agrees. "In a rudimentary way. I miss my bees." He sips his tea. "Thank you."

Fendral asks, "Will you go back to beekeeping?"

"I hope so. We don't know what's left in Maelyss. It's been a long time."

"I'm a farmer," Fendral says. "Or was, anyway. I can help to rebuild."

The giant extends a hand and Fendral shakes it, as best he can, though his own hand is swallowed up in the giant's. "I am Barric."

"I'm Fendral. And this is Belle, and that's Rumple."

"Barric, I'm pleased to meet you. I'd love to hear all about your bees. I wonder if the bees of Maelyss have much in common with those of Aramore." As Rumple watches in admiration, his Princess instantly charms the stranger. What a Queen she will make: perhaps there will be no wars during her reign, if she can win her rivals over as easily as she does this giant.

He suddenly realizes she could have been charming the gray men all along, if only she would put her pride aside. Honey, not lemon, is what she should be offering the nobles, winning them over one at a time. As soon as they're alone he'll point this out to her; she'll resist; she'll claim it's hypocritical to charm people she can't respect; but that will just be her attempt to justify holding onto her opinions. Eventually she'll see the truth in the old adage that one can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

As he listens to the bee talk, Rumple begins to plot. Maybe he can be of use to his future Queen after all.

* * *

The earth thunders as heavy feet pound a path across the camp. "Mamabelle!" She shouts it as a single word. "Rum!" She moves fast for a baby, even faster for a giant—but she's aware enough of the difference in their sizes that just before she reaches them, she forces herself to slow down so she doesn't risk knocking them over.

"Ely!" Belle shouts back with a laugh. She pats the ground beside her in invitation and the baby giant thumps down.

"'M clean!" Ely pats her face as if to emphasize the lack of dirt on her cheeks. "Smell nice, Mamabelle! Smell me." She leans in and Belle dutifully sniffs and makes sounds of approval.

"Nice bath," Ely enthuses, then shivers. "But cold. I like hot. With bubbles. D'you have more bubbles, Mamabelle?"

"No, they're all gone, but when I go back to my home, I'll send you more. Lots more."

The giant scowls. "Go home? No, you come to my home. Stay with me and Papa. Rum too." She pats Rumple's head. "You come too. Come with us. I love you."

"I need to go back to my home. I have work to do there," Belle explains gently. "My mother misses me. I miss her. But I'll write you letters and I won't forget you, and I'll never stop loving you. Do you understand, Ely? We're friends for always."

"I come to your home. With my Papa." Ely brightens. "One family! See?"

Belle strokes her arm. "Not yet, honey. It's not safe yet. But someday, not so long from now, I'll come to see you. When it's safe. When people aren't angry any more."

Her big face screws up and tears fall, but Belle hugs her and lets her whimper. "You won't be my mama?"

"No, sweetie. I'm sorry. But I'll be your friend for always."

Reaching across Belle's back, the giant holds out her open palm to Rumple. "You come. You come to my home."

Rumple has to scoot forward to take her hand. With Belle sandwiched between them, he cautions Ely, "We mustn't squish Belle, all right, Ely?"

This makes both females chuckle around their tears and Ely eases her grip on Belle. Then Rumple answers the invitation: "I'm sorry, Ely, but I can't go with you either. I have work to do at my home. But I have a favor to ask of you. Some work for you to do. Bae is going to go with you and live at your home for a while."

"Bae?" A grin fights for position against the frown. "Bae will?"

"Bae is my son and I love him very much, but he'll go with you, to learn. Will you help him learn about your home and your people? And will you take care of him? Make sure he gets enough to eat and gets enough sleep?"

Ely considers this with great seriousness before nodding. "I'll be Bae's mama."

"Thank you, Ely. I won't worry about him then."

"Because you took care of me."

Rumple reaches into his coat and produces a pear, which he presses into the giant's hand. "And take care of yourself too. Get enough to eat and get plenty of sleep. Because I care about you."

* * *

Bae and his companions return laughing in time for preparations for lunch. Rumple rushes over to him and draws him aside, while the other gatherers carry their provisions to the campfire. There will be fresh bread, thanks to the nuts they've gathered, with rose hips syrup, watercress and chickweed for salad, boiled rhubarb, and fried onions, to go along with the Guards' supply of peaches, pears and apples.

Bae studies his father's changing expressions as the gap between them closes. "What? Oh. You know about Maelyss."

Rumple throws his arms around his son, balancing awkwardly on one foot as he drops his cane. They're attracting stares; Rumple's probably embarrassing him, but Bae isn't the kind to give up a chance at a hug for the sake of sparing himself some stares. "Fendral asked."

"It's all right with you for me to go?"

"No," Rumple confesses. "I'm too selfish for that. But I'll agree with your decision. And I'm proud of it. What you'll learn will go a long way toward sealing the peace between humans and giants."

"Thanks, Papa. That's why I want to go. I know I have responsibilities at home, with you and Morraine—"

"It's all right. This is bigger. I'll look after her. I'm sure she'll do the same for me. And we'll wait."

"Well, I'm going to ask her to come with me. We'll have to rush the wedding, and Gretchen and Luke might not agree to it, but if they accept it, I think she'll want to go with me."

"I hope she will."

"It might be dangerous—"

"But you'll look out for each other. You and her and Fendral, and the other eighteen ambassadors." Rumple finally releases his son. "And Janshai will look out for you too. You'll be fine."

"Papa." Bae pulls back a little to read his father's eyes. "It's a long ways, but if you need anything while I'm gone, just send word and I'll come running."

"And if you need anything, you can send word to me and I'll come running."

Bae swallows hard. "Papa, it's because of you that I can do this. You showed me what courage is."

"Thank you, son. Now come on; you need to eat." He throws an arm around the lad's shoulders and leans on him a little as they start toward the campfire.

The humans partake of fish and rabbit, but the giants stick with vegetables and fruits. As Barric explains to his new friends that vegetarianism is not just a tradition but also a spiritual practice for his tribe, Fendral pushes away the plate of perch he's about to dig into. "If I'm going to live among you, I might as well start adjusting. Tell me some more about your religion."

Bae hastily swallows a mouthful of rabbit and pushes his own plate away.

"We've been talking." Barric hangs his head. "It wasn't our fault; it was part of the curse; but we feel guilty just the same. Not just for eating meat, but for—for everything we did. The destruction of your lands and homes. We're farmers, mostly. To us, growing things aren't just to sustain our bodies; they sustain our souls. To tear up farms the way we did, it goes against everything we believe in."

"I understand," Fendral says. "I'd feel the same way."

"The worst of it—we feel sick, knowing we ate human flesh. When we've returned home, if we can find a priest to lead us, we'll go through the purification ritual, but no amount of fasting and prayer can remove the stain from our souls."

"It wasn't by choice," Belle reminds him. "Magic compelled you."

"It's only that knowledge that saves us." Barric looks out across the camp to the remains of the cage, then past that to the edge of the forest, where Tristan is teaching Ely how to kick the ball. "She's our comfort now, she and the other children. We'll concentrate on them. It's through them that we can forgive ourselves and you. She is our hope."

Rumple raises his head. "'Our hope.' That's what Tristan named her: Elylrac. She's our hope too."


	34. Cakes and Ale

Five Guardsmen, accompanied by Janshai, have made their way over to the giants' side of the camp and they're hunkered down in the snow, alongside the eighteen ex-ogres. These five—Fendral, Bae, two female corporals and a male sergeant—have already volunteered for ambassadorships. That's nearly a quarter of the Guards here, Maurice points out to Rumple, and he's damn proud of them for coming forward. He rests a heavy arm across Rumple's shoulders. "That boy of yours." He shakes his head with a grin. "Something special. Not even twenty, is he? And already making a man's decisions."

Rumple suddenly realizes, "He'll be eighteen tomorrow." He could kick himself for forgetting. And he has nothing to provide for a celebration, not even the ingredients for a cake.

His frustration must be written on his face, because Maurice perceives it immediately. "This troop's got a longstanding tradition of celebrating birthdays. We'll make sure we have something nice prepared for tomorrow. "

"Thank you." Back at home, Rumple has a gift hidden away, something he bought months ago for such an important birthday: a saddle, secondhand but its worn parts carefully mended and its missing parts painstakingly restored, and as recently as last month, it had been soaped down, buffed and polished to a high shine. The army would provide its newest enlistee with a mount, but soldiers were permitted to substitute their own tack for the standard issue, and a comfortable saddle could make a big difference on a new horseman's tender backside. The saddle had cost Rumple an entire season's thread, along with hours of bartering as he swapped his writing services, first for a sturdy pair of boots, then the boots for a cloak, then the cloak for a table, then the table for a shoat, then finally the shoat for the saddle. All along the way, Rumple had daydreamed about the surprise and delight that would appear on Bae's face when he unwrapped the saddle from the burlap sacks now protecting it from dust.

Maurice perceives this too, and adds, "The negotiations are over. We'll be starting for home tomorrow. I want my volunteers to take two months' leave before they gather at Avonlea and head out to Maelyss. They'll have a lot of heavy work ahead of them there, so I want them to get some rest first. Any birthday gifts you may have planned for the lad, you'll have plenty of time to bestow. And, if scuttlebutt proves correct, there will be time enough for weddings as well."

"Yes, sire. I expect there will be." They watch the ambassadors and the hosts scratch out plans, drawing maps and composing lists; it's an odd sight, the giants with sheets of paper and pens that are three times as large as the humans'. Idly, Rumple wonders how much wool it would take to produce a single pair of trousers for a giant; then, less idly, he starts to form a question. "Your Majesty, I was thinking: Maelyss will need spinners—"

Maurice holds up a hand to warn off the rest of the suggestion. "I hope you won't think I'm butting in, Lieutenant, but I'd like to tell you a story."

"Oh? Of course, sire."

"When I was sixteen, my father decided that it was time I started taking some of the responsibility for running the kingdom, so he sent me out to negotiate a trade deal with a neighboring kingdom. The other king was just as eager as we were for this deal to happen, so it was no great challenge, but still, it was my first official negotiation. As you've no doubt surmised, the social aspects of governance do not come easily to me. Put me in front of a platoon, yes, I'm a leader to be followed, but put me in ruffled collars and buckle shoes and ask me to wield words instead of a broadsword, and I'll make the jesters laugh. That's my true nature, Lieutenant, though I've learned to keep it secret. I cover my nervousness with bluster, and given my size, it usually succeeds.

"Anyway, my father sent me to negotiate a trade deal in his name. It would mean a passageway through territory we'd previously been prohibited from entering, a passage that would save our wagons weeks of travel, so I realized the importance to our economy. My knees rattled like a skeleton's bones in a hurricane as I stood before King Falchine, and my voice squeaked like—well, like the breaking voice of the young man I was. I sweated and tugged at my ruffles. What a sight I must have been! But I managed to get through the negotiations and three additional days at Falchine's court as His Majesty paraded me around from party to party, showing me off for his gray men. On the ride home, I nearly collapsed with nervous exhaustion. But I'd succeeded, and as I stood before my father to report my success, I couldn't tell which of us was the prouder.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Lieutenant?"

Rumple and the King share a smile, father to father. "I think so, sire. I think the moral of the story is, Maelyss may need spinners, but a young man out on his own needs to be just that: trusted to be out on his own, without his father trailing along behind him."

"He'll make mistakes. We all do, no matter how old. But he'll have companions to counsel him and a lifetime of lessons from a wise father to draw upon. And when he comes home in success and stands before you, neither of you will know which is the prouder."

Rumple rubs the back of his neck, reflecting. He'd never had a protective parent to shadow him; he'd fended for himself, however inadequately, from the age of twelve, when he became apprenticed. But his marriage had taught him a little about the dangers of interfering parents, as Milah's mother had stuck her nose into the newlyweds' personal lives from the day after their wedding until the night Milah ran off with her pirate, and Milah's father had felt free to express to all who would listen that his runty son-in-law was a failure and his pretty daughter could have done much better for herself, if she hadn't soiled her reputation with unladylike flirtations with every male in the territory. Bae need have no worry about such involvement from his future in-laws, but now that he reflects upon it, Rumple can see that if he trailed along after Bae and Morraine to Maelyss, their marriage wouldn't have the freedom it needed to grow.

"Aye, Your Majesty," he says at last. "A good spinner knows when it's time to cut the thread."

"Aye." Maurice stands and stretches his long legs. "Let's go see how your other child is doing." He guffaws. "For a few days there, I thought it likely I'd wind up the foster grandfather of an ogre. Not that I wouldn't love any child my daughter chooses to raise, but—phew! Can you imagine escorting an ogre granddaughter to her first ball?"

* * *

Within an hour of sunrise, few signs of human occupancy remain in the camp. Every bit of canvas, burlap, iron and steel has been cleared away; the wagons that brought it all have been loaded and the horses, their heads bobbing in the harness, are anxious to begin their work, taking their masters home. Some of the giants and some of the humans mingle, bidding each other farewell. Ely has thrown her final tantrum, kicking her feet and screeching when, once again, Belle declines her invitation to "be my mama." When Rumple reminds her of her vow to take care of Bae, and when Janshai promises to take her to Avonlea for a visit as soon as it's safe, she settles into a redfaced pout. At the last minute, as Janshai leads his troops away, dragging her along by the hand, she bestows upon the humans a final two-teeth grin. "Bye, Mamabelle! Bye, Rum! Love you!"

Standing side by side, Rumple and Belle wave cheerfully tearful goodbyes. When the giants have faded into the forest, he takes her hand and walks her to the horse that brought her here, a lifetime ago. He holds the stirrup still as she mounts. Maurice keeps a respectful distance, pretending to adjust his steed's cinch so that they can talk in private.

"Won't you please reconsider? It'll be an opportunity like no other, to study the giants up close. And we need you, to speak out on behalf of the giants. The people will trust you—"

He shakes his head as he secures her foot in the stirrup. "I can't, Belle. I'm no orator, and I'm certainly no figure of respect, not for the commoners, certainly not for the nobles. I'm just a hobblefooted spinner who once ran from battle."

"Not this time." Her eyes flash and her words tumble over each other. "Not this time. You stood on this hill with the other soldiers and you did your duty. And it was because you didn't run when confronted with an ogre that we now have a treaty. You are a hero, Rumplestiltskin; no soldier here would argue otherwise."

"Staring into the face of an infant ogre is hardly the act of a hero."

"No, you're wrong—"

"And it's a far cry from facing down a castleful of noblemen." He reaches up to squeeze her gloved hand. "Safe journey, Your Highness, and I will eagerly await every letter." He takes a step back, then as her lips part in protest, a muscle in his cheek begins to twitch and he has to turn away from her. His eyes connect with Bae's as he walks to where the squires are waiting with saddled horses. Bae looks as if he'd like to argue too, but wisely, he merely bows a farewell. "Good luck, Your Highness."

"Good luck to you, Squire." As her father rides up to her, she gathers her reins and turns her horse, but at the last moment she gets in one more shot. "Ramsgate is not so far from Avonlea that you shouldn't expect an occasional visitor, Rumplestiltskin. One who needs to purchase thread or seek the advice of another scientist. . . or one who's just feeling a little lonely." She touches her heels to her mount's ribs and catches up with her father.

Rumple watches her ride away before accepting the reins from Bae and awkwardly swinging his bad leg over his horse's back. Maurice and his large entourage will make the two days' ride to Bogamir and stop for a rest and a bit of a celebration at the castle, but the Stiltskin men are headed in another, less populated direction, a more direct route home. They have a long ride ahead, with no villages between these mountains and Ramsgate. His swaybacked plug, a gift of the Duke, settles into a jagged walk behind Bae's horse.

Even after the King and the other Guardsmen have long vanished into the mountains, Rumple keeps looking over his shoulder in the direction of Bogamir.

* * *

"And then what?" Morraine scoots forward on the kitchen bench, soaking up every word.

Bae shrugs. "That's it. We came home."

"Wow," she breathes. "What an adventure! I'm so glad you're home, and safe." She pretends to reach for the teapot, but sneaks in a quick squeeze to her fiance's hand before she grasps the pothandle and pours. "Nothing happened here while you were gone. Nothing ever does." She plops a cube of sugar into the cup before pushing it towards him. She knows how Bae takes his tea, how he likes his toast buttered, how crabby he is in the mornings and how late he likes to stay up at night. She's known him literally all his life and she loves him in spite of it, or because of it, or both. Rumple isn't sure which—he never had such a connection with Milah—but he's happy for his son—and for any grandchildren that may come someday.

Morraine hasn't forgotten Bae's birthday. As soon as word rushed through the town that the Stiltskin men had been spotted at the crossroads, she'd grabbed her tin of flour and her mixing bowl, and by the time they'd crested the last hill into town, she had a cake in the oven and she was dashing down the muddy road, tearing the apron from her waist and tossing it in the bushes somewhere. She has a gift, a pair of socks she's knitted for him; her skills are lacking but Bae immediately yanks off his boots and replaces the socks he's wearing with hers. He wiggles his toes for all to admire the stitching. "Thank you, 'Raine. They'll keep me warm all winter."

As she blushes with pride, Luke carries forth a large bundle wrapped in burlap. "I took the liberty of fetching this from Fort's. Thought you'd want to have it ready."

"Thank you, Luke." Rumple sets the bundle atop the kitchen table. "Son, seeing that come tomorrow you'll be signing your enlistment papers, I thought you ought to have something appropriate for a soldier."

Bae yanks the burlap aside and yips as he runs his hands over the shiny leather. "Papa! Oh my gods, Papa, this must have cost a fortune! I thought it would take me a year to save up for my own saddle!"

"Not a fortune, just some arrangements."

Midnight, a bit put out by the lack of attention she's been shown since her masters returned, hops onto the table and plucks at the leather on the cantle until Bae swats her away. Tail raised, she leaps back onto the table and eyes the saddle suspiciously. Taking pity on her, Rumple lifts her onto his shoulders, where, as in her kitten days, she settles down for a nap. "I'm glad you like it, son."

"It's beautiful. I'll take it with me." He hastily glances up at Morraine. He's told her all about the ogres and the battle and the curse, but he hasn't told her everything yet—and now it's time. He reaches out for her hand. "'Raine, come outside. There's something we need to talk about."

Once they're gone, Luke leans forward with his elbows on his knees to ask in a low voice, "Is this about the wedding?"

Rumple deliberates a moment and decides he has a greater obligation to Bae, to protect his privacy, than to his friends. Bae is taking on a man's responsibilities, with the enlistment and marriage; although Fendral will be nearby to offer advice if asked, the newlyweds will be living on their own, making their own decisions. One of the first of Bae's adult decisions should be when and how to break the news of his Maelyss assignment to his future in-laws; clearly, he's decided to discuss the situation with his bride-to-be first. Rumple compromises with "I'm sure they'll tell us soon enough. Would either of you like some more tea?"

Gretchen accepts a refill, but holds onto her husband's thought. "I've almost finished the wedding-circle quilt. Maybe Angmar and I should work faster?"

Rumple had a glimpse of the quilt in its early days; he even provided thread for it. It will be colorful and warm and full of sentiment, made, as it is, from scraps of clothing Gretchen saved over the years, starting with the shirt that the midwife dressed Morraine in immediately after her birth and ending with a square from Bae's uniform. The quilt has been kept hidden at Gretchen's friend's house, and over the past year, several of the women of Ramsgate have gathered there of an afternoon to sew. As she's confessed to Rumple, Morraine has known about this secret all along—not much can be kept hidden in this little town—but she pretends she doesn't. Gretchen gets dreamy-eyed when she talks about the quilt's progress: she imagines the role it will play in her daughter's life, from the wedding night to the birth of the first child to the day Granny Morraine draws her final breath. There's a catch in her voice as she speaks; it draws Midnight's attention and the cat leaps from Rumple's shoulder to Gretchen's lap to offer comfort.

Rumple can think of no more significant a gift for a wedding than a quilt. He's been deliberating for ages as to what his gift to the newlyweds will be: some pots and pans would be useful, and they'll certainly need human-sized kitchenware in their new home, for, if anything is left in the long-abandoned land of Maelyss, it will of course be giant-sized. Tools would be a good choice too: the ambassadors will certainly need them to build their homes. But as Gretchen describes the nearly finished quilt and idly strokes Midnight's fur, the answer comes to Rumple. His gift will be highly unusual, but, like the quilt, both practical and sentimental. He folds his hands over his belly and settles deeper into his rocking chair, content with his decision—and at the same time, feeling a chill crawl across his skin. Two years is a very long time to be without his son. So much can happen in two years: why, by the time they meet again, Bae may have become a beefy, leather-skinned, callus-handed farmer with a long beard on his chin and a toddler on his shoulders.

Rumple rips his thoughts away from his fears and focuses instead on immediate plans. Tomorrow, he will walk over to the tavern and make some discreet inquiries regarding the object of his gift. When he finds what he's looking for, he will need to make arrangements to hide it, as Gretchen has done the quilt, until the wedding day.

A noise at the door draws his and his guests' attention. Red-cheeked, Morraine is swept in with a blast of cold air; holding her hand, Bae is right behind her. "Mother, father, we've got something to tell you," she says breathlessly. She smiles over her shoulder at her beloved.

* * *

Luke, Gretchen, Morraine and Bae have been gone since the break of dawn. There is so much to do, so much they'll need for the wedding and after; they've made a list and have split up the chores, and although it means the young couple won't see each other until evening, the four of them have gone off in different directions. Rumple, too, has a portion of the list; one of his duties is to prepare as much thread and yarn as he can, to provide for the newlyweds' clothing needs, so he's at his wheel until lunchtime, with Midnight curled in a ball on Bae's pallet to keep him company. When she raises her head and yawns, he smiles at her. "Thanks to you, I'll have a wedding gift for them," he declares.

She flops onto her side, clearly unimpressed. But she does look up when, at lunchtime, he grabs his cane and his coat and makes his way over to the tavern. As he expects, the pub is crowded with men, mostly farmers who've come in for gossip and ale and a warm fire; but against all expectations, as soon as he pushes the doors open and crosses the threshold, he's greeted with handshakes, backslaps and offers to buy him a drink and a meal. "Tell us what happened in Bogamir," someone urges. "We had reports, but they were pretty vague."

"What's this about a curse and giants?" Another man asks, pressing a steaming mug into his hand.

"How big are they, anyway?" That's Rulf, leaning against the counter. "Taller than this here tavern? Taller than a oak?"

"I, ah—"

Someone grabs his arm and ushers him to a table. "Get on over here and sat your arse down. Someone fill a plate, pronto! Ramsgate don't let its war veterans go hungry, and they sure as hell don't make 'em pay for their own beer. Somebody fill a tankard—and none of that horse's piss, either."

Rumple stumbles and his cane clatters to the floor as he's pushed into a chair and the bespoke tankard and plate are planted before him.

"Eat, boy, eat! And tell us about the war."

The room quickly becomes overheated as men crowd around the table. Despite the laughter and the calls for war stories, Rumple can hear his stomach growl as curls of steam rise from the roast pork, boiled potatoes, fried onions and carrots piled high on the plate. His memory—a victim's memory—cautions him against trusting this food: it's a trick: they've probably doused the food in sheep dip and salted the ale. That's the only explanation that makes sense. But Rulf has swung a chair so that it faces backwards and he's dropped down onto it, his arm crossed over its back, and his face is eager and innocent, and by damn, Rumple believes him, believes _them_ , though over the past eighteen years he's experienced kicks, slaps, insults and opportunistic cheating from half the men in this room, and the rest have stood by, letting it all happen, either laughing at him or ignoring his pain. Rumple sticks a knife—it's clean! They've given him a clean knife! –into a slice of potato and carries it up to his nose to sniff. He smells nothing suspicious. He takes a bite. He tastes nothing suspicious. It tastes _good_. He swallows and the men continue to prod him for war stories.

"Well. . . Domin Canyon, that's where the ogres were holed up. A two days' ride from Bogamir. . . ."

"Shhh! Shut up, you lot! We're tryin' to hear this man's story."

Rumple glances up; it's the bartender who's shushing the rest of the room. He's standing beside Rumple, his arms crossed, glaring at the men behind him. Obediently, the tavern falls silent, except for an occasional belch or clatter of spoons. "Go on, Stiltskin," the bartender urges. "'A two days' ride,' you was sayin'."

"From Bogamir. On the Duke's horses, that is; a sorrier set of beasts you've never seen. But Bogamir's a poor region and they had a draught last year. We got into camp after dark. . . ."

Two hours later, his belly overstuffed and his chin greasy, Rumplestiltskin picks up his cane and makes his way home. He's completed his mission—after telling his story, he remembered to ask about the object he wants to purchase for Bae and Morraine—and has made a good trade for it. He is satisfied, inside and out.

But what he can't get over, as he explains to his cat as he hangs up his coat, is that in the brief time he and Bae were gone, the entire village changed. He doesn't understand it—doesn't trust it, and won't, for a long time yet—but he left Ramsgate barely a month ago, eighteen years a coward, and he's come home a war veteran. And all he did to earn that new reputation was blow a whistle and sing songs to an infant.

It won't last, of course. Another day or two and they'll see him once again for the coward he is. But in the meantime, he longs to allow himself to enjoy the recognition (in some cases, even admiration), though it's based on a misunderstanding.

As he walks home, passersby nod to him on road. One man even tips his hat. Enndolyn, wife of the baker, greets him with "Welcome home, Captain."

"Lieutenant," he corrects her in a mumble.

She doesn't notice the correction. "When you have a moment, come by the shop. Falk and me want to make a cake for your boy's wedding. No charge."

"'No charge'?"

She shrugs. "Something we do for war heroes."

"Heroes?" he echoes faintly, but she's already walking away. " _War_ heroes?!"

Strange, strange world.


	35. Induction

Rumple has accompanied Bae to Ravershire Keep, to see him sworn in; they could have fetched one of the Bogamir nags back from Fort's farm, hitched him to a cart and made the journey more quickly (though not necessarily more smoothly), but they chose to walk. It would be their last such journey together.

They arrive without incident—the roads are in better condition now, as traffic between the city and the village has increased—and after taking one last private meal in a tavern, they make their way to the castle. The yard is strangely empty; no soldiers are practicing their swordplay or archery, and only a handful of Guardsmen are patrolling the grounds. Most of the army is occupied on the north edge of the city, busy building homes for the incoming ambassadors, while most of the Home Guard is away on leave. Bae and Rumple search the barracks for a familiar face, but finding it unoccupied, they make their way to the castle. Favian, who's exercising Darain's horse, spots them and comes at a trot. "Ah! We were expecting you today. Go on into the kitchen; Esme's got some pie waiting for you. I'll let Fendral know you're here. You're still gonna enlist today, aren't you?"

"You bet I am." Bae puffs out his chest.

"Wish I could. But I've got another three months." Favian wheels the horse around and gallops off.

Bae stands a bit taller, feeling mature. "It'll be his turn soon enough. I hope it's apple." He starts for the kitchen, where his wish is granted, and though they're already stuffed from the tavern meal, they scarf down slices of pie and cups of buttermilk. After insisting that they wash up and change clothes ("you don't want to enlist in those dirty things, do you?") Esme and Helena keep them talking—seem to have questions for everything from the weather to Ramsgate's cat population—until Rumple begins to suspect something fishy. When Esme fills his cup for the third time, Rumple pushes back from the table. "Now, Esme, what's going on here? Where's Fendral?"

"Oh, he's. . . he'll be here soon enough. More pie, Rumple? How about a nice slice of roast beef?"

"I don't mean to be impatient, but we were hoping to get the enlistment papers signed so we could get back on the road before sundown."

"Well, just a little longer, Rumple. He's coming. Say, you haven't met Spot yet, have you? That's our new kitchen cat. She's a descendant of your Midnight. Helena, go get Spot so Rumple can—"

The door suddenly flies open and there stands Fendral, his hair neatly combed, his jaw freshly shaven, and his body clad in a spotless uniform. "Bae! Good to see you, lad. Lieutenant! You seem well." He shakes their hands. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but—you'll see." He urges them to follow him up the backstairs. Behind them, the cooks giggle.

Bae puzzles, "But the war room's that way, isn't it? Isn't that where the inductions are done?"

"We have a little something planned." Fendral leads them into another corridor, then into a third.

They are both startled when, instead of the war room, Fendral leads them to the Petitions Room, where a small cluster of castle inhabitants are waiting. As the Stiltskins are led forward, they pass by familiar faces: Aalot, Aloys and Peyton the footmen, Ulrich the butler, Belle's maid Eloise, the King's weaver, Esme and Helena the cooks. The servants are lined up on either side of the carpet that the castle rolls out for visiting royals: the upstairs staff on the right, the downstairs staff on the left. Aalot dips his head as Rumple passes by: "Sir." Just beyond the servants, the Home Guard stands in formation; the squires Tristan and Favian hoot as Bae passes by. A sharp warning—"Gentlemen!"-from Darain brings the hooting to a hasty end. Then the General snaps, "Attention!" and the troops click their heels and straighten their backs and stare straight ahead, all expression wiped from their faces.

Bae gasps, then quickly collects himself, for he's one of them now and he must comport himself as a soldier. But he wasn't expecting this at all—the induction ceremony is usually limited to one officer, a sergeant and the inductee—and he certainly wasn't expecting the King himself to be standing on the stage to which the Stiltskins are now being led. Yet there he is, big as a giant, smiling down, with Belle and Colette standing on his left and Darain on his right.

Puzzled—then worried that this means something terrible—has war broken out in the few days since their return from Domin Canyon?—Rumple looks to Belle for a sign, but she's smiling as broadly as her father is, and she winks at Bae. Colette is a bit more dignified, her hands folded demurely. "Hope you don't mind me making a bit of a fuss," Maurice says to Bae. "I know these things are usually private, but I wanted in on the celebration too."

Bae stammers but the King's grin prompts him to grin in answer. "Aye, sire."

Maurice glances at Darain and the General speaks formally: "Baelfire of Ramsgate, raise your right hand. Is it your wish to enlist in the army of His Majesty, King Maurice of Aramore?"

Bae answers clearly and loudly. "It is, sir."

"Baelfire of Ramsgate, do you pledge to defend your brethren in arms, your country and your King against all enemies, foreign and domestic, to the utmost of your abilities, and with your life, if need be?"

"I do, sir!"

"Then, Squire Baelfire, I hereby induct you into His Majesty's army at the rank of private. You will report to your unit for duty on first day of the third month of spring, sixty days hence."

"Yes, sir!" Baelfire salutes, and after returning the salute, the General shakes his hand. To the formation, Darain orders, "Soldiers, welcome your new brother. Dismissed!"

Chattering breaks out and Bae is quickly lost in sea of celebrators. Rumple, too, receives handshakes from the understaff and from those he served alongside before Belle sneaks up behind him and tugs him aside. "Let's get some mead, Lieutenant," she suggests, directing him to a banquet table upon which various beverages and treats have been set. The footmen pick up trays and begin to move about, serving the royals first, then the soldiers. The cooks and maids offer quick hugs for Bae and Rumple before leaving the Petitions Room to return to their assigned stations. Rumple wonders momentarily what the gray men would make of all this, all these ruffians wandering about where they ought not be.

Then he wonders, if any of the nobles were to learn of this and demand of him why his son, an ordinary recruit from an insignificant village, merited the attentions of royals, how would he answer? Heat creeps up the back of his neck as the words come to him: "Because he defended you and your lands against ogres, that's why."

As for himself, however, and his own merits, he would have no answer.

"Lieutenant." Maurice's voice booms as he approaches the banquet table. "Good to see you again. I trust all was in order when you and Bae returned home from Domin?"

"Yes, sire, everything was fine." He nods at the tankard that Belle has pressed into his hand. "Thank you for this, all this."

"I hope we didn't embarrass him too much." Maurice accepts a tankard from Peyton. "It's out of the ordinary, but. . . ." He shrugs. "When the time comes for the other two squires, I'll do the same. They had a hard row to hoe and they did it without complaint. Such a young age, and yet they're war veterans now."

"To our veterans. All of them." Belle's eyes sparkle as she raises her cup in a salute and the men join her.

"Hear, hear," Maurice says. He drinks heartily before turning to study the room. "They're a good lot, all of them, and they did Aramore proud."

"They are, that," Rumple agrees.

Maurice proposes another toast. "And to the Spinner's Whistle and ogre experts, who made a treaty possible."

Belle and Rumple exchange blushes but respond to the salute. "To the ogre experts. Thank you, Father."

Another quaff and Maurice sets his tankard down. "I guess I'd better go rescue your mother. She's surrounded by generals. Congratulations, Lieutenant." He pops a cookie into his mouth before plunging into the crowd.

Belle sighs. "At last, a minute alone!" She pulls Rumple by the sleeve to the far end of the banquet table, out of earshot of the footmen. "I just wanted to say how proud I am of Bae."

"Thank you. I am too."

"And the wedding? Is it on?"

He grins into his mead. "It is. The first of next month. They'll leave for a honeymoon immediately after."

"And will she be going with him to Maelyss or wait for him in Ramsgate?"

His grin widens. "She was thrilled about Maelyss. She says she considers that assignment the army's wedding gift to her and Bae."

"I'm glad. She sounds like she's ready to be an army wife."

Rumple hesitates a moment, taking a long drink, before he ventures, "We'd like for you to come to the wedding, if it's not asking too much. I don't know the protocol. . . a royal attending a common wedding. . . . if people would consider it improper. . . ."

She sniffs. "Nonsense. I'm honored to be invited, and I accept with all my heart. I was there once, if I remember correctly, in Ramsgate."

"Yes. A harvest festival." He waits, hoping she'll remember more—to whom she awarded Livestock of the Year, for instance.

She frowns slightly as she digs for the memory. "I remember it's a two-day journey and I stayed with Duke Cedric." She shudders. "Horrible man. Even horribler, I remember seeing the Dark One hovering in the shadows. The Duke made him sleep in a dungeon."

"Yes." Rumple's shoulders slump a little; she has forgotten meeting him and Bae at that festival. "We saw the Dark One from time to time, but always at a distance. The Duke would trot him out to scare us, then rush him back to the dungeon again."

"Cedric's replacement is a much nicer man. When I come for the wedding, I could stay with—" she interrupts herself. "No. A bad idea. I remember in one of your letters you mentioned an inn."

"Yes, but not suitable for a Princess—"

"Is it clean? Free of rats?"

"Yes. . . ."

"Frequented by robbers or enemies of the crown?"

"No, but, I mean, it's small and plain and the mattresses are woefully thin."

"Last week, remember, I slept on the ground. I think I can tolerate a thin mattress for one night." She slips her arm under his. "What I'm thinking is that I should come. . . not as myself. Not as a royal. A wedding day belongs to the bride and groom. If a princess appears, it will detract from them. I'd be a disruption. Do you see what I mean?"

"I think so."

She begins to plot aloud. "But if I come in ordinary dress. . . if I say I work here and that's how I know Bae. . . that my name is Eloise. . . ."

"Yes, I see." Rumple imagines her in a maid's uniform. The image stirs his senses.

"Or that I'm a cook. Yes, that makes more sense. Bae has been friends with Helena for a long time; he's probably mentioned her to people in Ramsgate. Yes. I'm Helena the cook from Ravershire Keep and Bae used to charm treats from me when he was younger. And I'll come with my friend Eloise, in our Sunday dresses, and we'll stay at the inn. We'll tell Morraine and her parents the truth, but to everyone else, we're simply friends of the groom."

"Very clever." Rumple starts to lean forward, his instincts driving him to kiss her in reward, but then he remembers where they are and pulls back. "Thank you for thinking of Morraine and Bae that way."

"It's their day. All eyes should be on them." She glances around the room. "Speaking of eyes, no one is looking. I'll take that kiss now."

It's not as warm a kiss as he would like, but it pleases him anyway.

* * *

It was the wine. Too much of it and too many varieties of it. He'd never been a drinker, but his father, who had been (to such an extent that Malcolm could probably be considered an expert on drunkenness), had told him once that a man could drink more if he stuck to the same type of drink all night. But that would have been rude—the father of the groom was downright obligated to sample all the wines, from Fort's mulberry to Leofrik's brandy. To fail to take a hardy draught from each would have been an insult to the friend who had brought it.

Friends! Only last night had it caught up with him how many friends he and Bae have now, and friends at varying levels of closeness, too! Nodding acquaintances, borrow-things-from friends, good-time pals, got-your-back buddies, and even three new family members, brought into the Stiltskin fold by a few words spoken over them by a priest last night.

And now, a confidante. Rumple isn't sure how he feels about that. He's never confided in anyone, not even Milah. He's never dared to, lest the information be used against him.

It's too late now. He downs the dregs of a cup of tea to wash the cotton taste from his mouth as he rests his forehead against his kitchen table.

He remembers walking home with Belle last night after the wedding dinner (and all those bottles of wine, provided as wedding gifts to a war hero). He hadn't been drunk, just giddy, too fuzzy-headed to realize the impropriety of taking a woman (a Princess!) into his hovel, unchaperoned. He hadn't been drunk, just loose-tongued, and his tongue made freer by the fact that it was Belle who seated herself across from him at this very table. They'd been laughing—he couldn't remember what the joke was—then they'd transitioned into sighs at the beauty of the wedding, Morraine's sky blue dress, Bae's new uniform with brass buttons and a war ribbon, tall ivory candles in the church's candlestick holder (the candles are Belle's gift to the couple. She'd made them herself, under instruction from castle staff. She'd given much thought to her gift, she had confessed to Rumple last night. To give the sort of gift a royal typically would give would have felt wrong, not only ostentatious, compared to the other guests' gifts, but also impersonal. And that is not how she feels about Bae. Far from it. So she gave the newlyweds something handmade and lovely, and Morraine had been so delighted with those candles that she asked the priest to set them aside for her after the ceremony, so she could carry them with her always, a token she could light every year on their anniversary.)

So Rumple and Belle had taken their conversation from silliness to sentimentality as they sat across from one another, alone in his hovel, holding hands across the table. And the sentimentality had led to questions from Belle about the newlyweds' courtship (it had begun, Rumple said, when two-year-old Morraine had shared a cookie with her favorite friend, and Bae in return had given her a sip of goat's milk. "That was the month Bae had learned to say 'Mine!'" Rumple remembered. "And boy, did he show it off. He wouldn't share anything, not even with me, until Morraine gave him that cookie. After that, whatever he had was hers, and whatever she had was his.")

And as he told the old stories, getting a little misty over them, his imagination traveled to the nights and years to come, when this hovel would sit quiet and dark, with only an elderly cat to break the stillness. One minute he'd been bragging about Bae's bravery in standing up to the bully Borin; the next, Rumple had been sobbing unashamedly in Belle's arms. She rubbed his back and let him dampen the collar of her dress, and didn't chide him for his tears or try to cajole him out of his overwhelming emotions, such a strange mixture of pride, joy, loneliness and purposelessness, now that his work as a father was done. She just let him cry.

Somewhere around dawn, he'd pulled himself together sufficiently to make tea, and they'd talked about safer topics: preparations for the ambassadors' arrival, the "sales pitch" that Colette had, with Maurice's advisors, put together, to persuade the public to accept their guests, and the laws that Maurice had rushed into the books that would enforce the agreements in the treaty. Along with her candles, Belle had brought much news, including a report from Janshai to Maurice, that, after being so long unoccupied, Maelyss had been overtaken by wilderness and the giants had had to start their community all over again. They were sleeping under the canvas donated to them by Maurice's Home Guard, because spring had already come to Maelyss and ground had to be broken immediately for crops. "Houselessness" (Janshai had drawn a sharp distinction between that and "homelessness": "We have a home. We have returned to it.") was no great hardship, after centuries of living as refugees.

"There's even news from 'our child,'" Belle had giggled. From her pocket she brought forth a sheet of paper that, when unfolded, proved to be as long as her arm. "But it's all about proportion, you know. To the giants, this sheet of paper is no bigger than one of ours."

Uninterested in the science of communication with giants, Rumple had eagerly seized the paper. There were no words upon it, but none were needed: a charcoal sketch of three stick figures holding hands (and one of them holding a cane) conveyed Ely's message. "She remembers us." If he'd had any tears left, he would have lost them now.

Belle pointed to a large figure in the background. "I thought that was a tree at first, but now I think it's Janshai. Or maybe my father. In his letter Janshai said she asks about us. She still has the doll, and when she tucks it in at night she sings it your lullaby for Bae."

Rumple had to clear his throat. "We'll see her again."

"We will." Belle had pressed the drawing into his hand. "You keep it. She'll send more, I'm sure."

"We should write her a letter."

"Yes. Tomorrow, after we've gotten some rest."

"We should draw her a picture."

"Of the wedding. I wonder if the giants have weddings?"

"We'll find out soon enough. We'll find out all about them."

"And they'll find out about us." Belle could no longer hold back a yawn. "We should get some sleep."

He set the drawing down to pick up his cane. "I'll escort you back to the inn."

She looked closely at him. "I don't want to go back to the inn."

He didn't pretend he didn't understand her meaning, but he stood and held out his free hand. "As much as I want to say yes—"

"I don't care what other people think."

"You have to," he said gently, and he grasped her hand. The cat grumbled as she was forced off Belle's lap when the Princess reluctantly rose. But at the threshold of his hovel, before Rumple could pull the door open, she tugged at him. "Promise me: someday I won't have to go back to the inn."

"I can't."

Her hand in his quavered. From the chill, perhaps, as he opened the door. "Promise me, then, that you _want_ to."

With a deep sigh he drew her against his chest. "I promise you I'll always want to." And he kissed her like a lover before escorting her back to her rented room, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the inn's caretaker. Outside, he'd stood for a moment on the empty road, staring up at the window that was hers; somehow she must have known, because she pushed back the drapes and waved at him before retreating. He'd retreated too, to his cold hearth and his cat.

The sun has risen fully now and still he's hunched over his cup. He should be sleeping. The village will forgive him for his late night; no one will come looking for a contract or thread today—it isn't every day that a father sends his only son off on a honeymoon. But he hears the faint rustle of ghosts behind him, or thinks he does (probably it's just the cat, sniffing for mice). There's the sensation that Bae is lying back there, just behind the kitchen, on his pallet, fighting off the wakefulness creeping up on him. There's the sensation that Belle is kneeling at the hearth, poking at the embers to raise a fire to boil water for tea. He thinks he should get breakfast started for his family: fried eggs for Bae, oatmeal for Belle. A scrap of pork for Midnight, whose hunting skills have dulled with age.

He wants to provide for them: a nourishing meal, a warm home. His love.

Except Belle is probably asleep now, and Bae and Morraine are in a coach bound for the Green Mountains, for a honeymoon, and Midnight is sitting on the window sill, staring out at something Rumple can't see.

He's happy for them. Truly, he is. But he's selfish too, and he's sorry for himself.

* * *

A rap at his door and a sing-songy greeting bring him out of a messy slumber. As he wipes the edges of his mouth and invites his guest in, he wishes he had bathed before allowing himself to fall asleep at the table. He smells like Malcolm used to.

Nobody will mind today, though. They expect some dishevelment from both fathers, the one who gave away a daughter and the one who let go of a son. The instant Bae returned from Avonlea with his enlistment papers in his pouch, the two families' standing in the community had changed. Even the boys who used to bully Bae now have to look up to him, in his stiff new uniform (and if any one of them didn't treat him with the respect a soldier deserves, that coward could expect a thrashing from Rulf. He might be one-armed, but the fist at the end of that arm was as solid as an anvil).

"Come in," Rumple invites, and the door swings open with Gretchen in the entrance. She's carrying a covered plate, which she sets down on the table.

"Sorry I'm a mess," he mutters.

She fills the kettle with water, then she stirs the fire. "You should see Lucas."

Rumple takes comfort in that. "Is he awake?"

"No. He fell into bed about an hour ago, still in his wedding clothes. Some of the men decided that if they couldn't keep Bae out all night, Lucas would do." She uncovers the plate to reveal two slices of plain bread. "Here, you need to get something in your stomach to soak up all that wine. I'll have tea ready in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Gretchen." He stares at the bread, barely able to tolerate the smell of it, but he knows she's right. As a small boy he learned to feed dry bread to Malcolm after he'd dragged him home from a tavern. "Did we make fools of ourselves?"

She brings him a mug and a spoon from the kitchen cupboard, then stands over the kettle, waiting for it to whistle. "No more than you should have. After all, it's a wedding." She turns around with a sly smile. "Everyone's asking when there will be another."

"Another?" He manages to swallow a bite of bread. "Another drunken display from two old men?"

"Another wedding." She's smug in her question. "They saw you leave with 'Helena' last night—while her companion Eloise went back to the inn."

He remains silent, pretending to examine the spoon.

"Rumplestiltskin, we've known each other nearly twenty years. I've never seen you so happy as you were last night."

"Wine will do that."

She slams her fists on her hips and huffs. "That wasn't wine making your eyes shine and your voice all whispery. The same look that was on Bae's face last night was on yours."

"She's a Princess."

"That's right. She's also a woman. A smart one, I think; one who knows her own mind."

He growls, "She's a _Princess_."

"She's chosen you."

"A bad choice."

"She's chosen you and she's waiting for you to choose her." When he starts to argue, she waves a finger in his face. "All I've got to add to that is: she doesn't deserve to be lonely and neither do you. You can fix that." She walks out.


	36. Dearest Rumple

Dearest Rumple,

My father and I have had to make the sort of decision we detest, especially coming after years of war: to raise taxes. Again. You Ramsgaters have probably already heard this: we made a public announcement of it last week, preferring to be direct and frank about it, though some of our advisors recommended we try to sneak it in, creating a number of small additional taxes rather than increasing the property tax noticeably. My mother argued for this idea, by the way; "small nips rather than one large bite," she said, "will hurt less overall." And there is some merit, we felt, to the idea that creating a group of taxes, as King George has—merchants in Hamshire have been made unofficial tax collectors, in effect, by being required to charge a tax on all sales, and there are also new taxes on imported items, livestock and schools. The gray men, as you can imagine, argued strongly for this approach, claiming that it would spread the responsibilities of supporting the government across all classes. I, along with the majority of our advisors, however, argued that the poor need to retain what little income they're able to make. There are far too many living on the streets as it is, including those who were permanently disabled in battle and those whose farms were destroyed by ogres. In the end, after much deliberation and loss of sleep, and after listening to Mother's and my arguments, my father made the decision alone—it would be on his head alone, he said; and if the people never forgave him, the blame need not carry over to me when I inherit the throne. This business of financing a kingdom is the most miserable aspect of governance, my father says, because it there is no way to do it that will not cause long-term pain.

And so the property taxes will be increased by five percent. The nobles will complain the loudest but I fear it is the small households that will feel it the worst. Even you, my dear friend, with your small patch of land will have to dig deeper into your pocket to support your King. Believe me, my father did not take this decision easily. He knows that so many families are hungry now and an increased tax will take food from the table. But it is our hope that this increase will be temporary, two years at the most, and _it is necessary._ Not only to rebuild our villages, demolished in war; not only to provide medical care and housing for wounded veterans and their widows and orphans; but also to create a new economy for all of Aramore, as we shift our industrial spending from the tools of war to the tools of peace: schools, roads, training for the jobs that will be needed in the new world we hope to create. Within two years, we believe, this shift will be far enough along that those peacetime industries will be self-sustaining, building everyone's income overall, so that the government can then spend less and take in less.

In the meantime, however, tensions mount. The Council of Nobles has been meeting independent of us, first in secret, but now openly, and when they come to Ravershire for their monthly meetings they are well organized and well armed in their plans to undermine us. Time is on our side, my mother assures us; soon, as they see the results of our efforts, their hunger for our blood will wane. Father is not so confident; he has been meeting in secret too, with Midas and other leaders, to consider his options. Mother and I, meanwhile, are taking your counsel to heart: we have been "pouring honey," as you would say, on the heads of each and every noble house in the land, one by one, bringing them to Ravershire for teas, throwing balls for their daughters' comings-out, granting plum assignments for their sons. For a few, the most recalcitrant and the most influential, we have even gone to them. This is hardly ever done: you may be invited to visit the King, but the King does not come to visit you. But my mother and I make our "social calls" to those we most need on our side. We flatter, we charm, but we do not _ask_ their support; that would be weakness, and if they smell weakness, they will take advantage. No, after we've flattered and charmed, we _require_ of them their support. When we have them eating from our glove, we quickly slide the bit between their teeth and then we lead them by the bridle where we will have them go.

Mother excels at this work, and she teaches me painstakingly, but I am a slow learner. Like Father, I just don't have the patience. We are so grateful, Father and I, to have a woman of her skill in on our side. You have this skill, too, my Rumple, if only you would see it. I may be the Ogre Expert, but you are the King Charmer, winning over my father and his generals as certainly as you did Ely.

And me.

Yours always,

Belle

* * *

My dear Belle,

It's true there is some disgruntlement in Ramsgate over the tax increase, but your father's decision to waive the taxes on veterans' property has taken some of the sting out of it. And last year's harvest was satisfactory, so the general feeling is that we will muddle through. His Grace Duke Gorvenal visited our village personally to announce the new taxes and to assure us the increase is temporary and will result in lasting benefits for the entire kingdom. He stayed with us for three days, participating in our spring festival and giving out the awards at our fishing tournament. He even slept in the inn and drank at the Hog's Head, buying a round for all the customers, so his reputation with us is solid and we take him at his word. Of course, I take your father at his word, as well.

The village is divided over whether it was a wise decision to make a treaty with the giants. Most who lost a loved one in the war believe that we should have slaughtered the last of the ogres when we had the opportunity. It's not always revenge that drives this belief: sometimes it's fear that the ogres will rise again. I find myself in the odd role sometimes of speaking on behalf of your father; the village seems to think that, having served under him, I speak for him. I preface all my answers to their questions with a firm qualifier that my opinion is mine alone, but sometimes my disclaimer is ignored. What I try to make clear to all who challenge the treaty is that the ogres no longer exist, not in Aramore, not anywhere.

Some will never be convinced. From my own experience, I know that the capacity for forgiveness does not reside in some people. But in time, I am certain, most will come to feel differently about the giants, as they did about me.

I trust you are well, and safe, and finding contentment in resuming your royal duties and satisfaction in resuming your school. I think about you in everything I do.

Rumple

* * *

Dearest Rumple,

A letter from Governor Janshai arrived today (with another drawing from our shared child, this one of Bae and Morraine). Upon arrival in Maelyss, Janshai sent out inquiries throughout the seven civilized nations to ascertain the whereabouts of any existing ogres, if any (he is certain there are none, that when we broke the curse, any ogres anywhere would have turned back into giants, but he wants definitive proof to reassure us humans). He has had responses from two nations so far: no ogre sightings.

He also sent out word that any tribes of giants living anywhere are invited to join his tribe in Maelyss. So far he's had no answer; he really doesn't expect one, as he believes the Dark One killed off all tribes but his. After much deliberation, my father, the Generals and I decided it's best to not to share this part of Janshai's news with anyone else, especially the Council of Nobles. It would cause needless upset; there is already such fervor for revenge that to suggest there is even the slightest possibility of bands of giants coming together to form a nation would create a panic. If Janshai's belief is disproven—if any other tribes of giants emerge—then we will release that news to the public. But I've pored through every history of the giants and Merdock the Mage, and I've found nothing that suggests Janshai is wrong in what he told us about the curse. It seems that Merdock was as thorough in his curse-casting as he was ambitious: he considered himself in competition with his predecessors and wished to go down in history as the most powerful of all Dark Ones.

I suppose I should be relieved that there are no other giants in the world, but instead, I find myself mourning for them and praying for their future. What must it feel like, to know that your people are on the verge of extinction? How much more important it is that the rebuilding of Maelyss is successful and quick, and that enemies, pestilence and plague are kept at bay. Janshai's tribe must survive, and right now, the chances are poor. There are only seventy of them, and of those, only twenty children. What anxiety that must produce, that the future of their entire species rests on so few. But Janshai tells us they have a strong faith that they lean on, so they are hopeful.

Although it is another two weeks before the ambassador exchange takes place, Captain Fendral and three others set out for Maelyss today, driving wagons filled with farming implements, seed, canvas and tools. I slipped a small stack of storybooks into their crates; the children of Maelyss need some entertainment. My father is so proud of these volunteers that he rode out with them, parting company from them only when they reached the edge of Avonlea. Some of our citizens, led by the Bishop, walked alongside the volunteers. It was, the Bishop said, a political statement, meant to support the King, as well as a religious one, meant to promote forgiveness. It was a stirring sight: priests, old folks and veterans, cheering for our volunteers and singing "O Aramore"; children waving flags and drawings of what they imagine the giants look like. I wish you had been here to see it.

I wish you had been here.

Yours,

Belle

* * *

My dear Belle,

Even as my son and his bride scamper about, collecting the things they will need for their life in Maelyss, saying goodbye to friends and being feasted by them, and by people who barely know them, a sort of a heavy quiet has settled over the neighborhood. We three parents who are about to be parted from our only children keep our hands constantly busy, sewing and mending clothing, sharpening tools, wrapping nonperishable foods, and packing, packing, packing, fitting and refitting everything that must be taken, most of what should be taken, and a little of what could be left behind but what will provide comfort and memories of home. But even as we work, we fall silent, saddened by our impending loss. Two years is such a long time.

When it was just our two families, what we planned to send with our children would fill a handcart. But as Morraine and Bae went round making their farewells, the pile grew with goodbye gifts. At first, these were things deemed necessary for young pioneers journeying to an uninhabited land, but then Forthworth changed the whole tenor of the giving when he and Rulf appeared at my gate with five goats. Belle, the value of this gift was equal to a season's income for Fort's family, but he and Rulf shepherded the goats into the pen where I keep my two sheep. "To take on your trip," Fort said, and Morraine said this gift was far too generous, and it was: two goats would have kept a young couple well supplied with milk and cheese.

"There's babies in Maelyss. They're gonna need milk," Fort said.

We realized then that the goats weren't meant for Bae and Morraine, but for the benefit of the giants. We were left speechless, for, as you will remember, Fort and his wife Beryl lost two of their sons to ogres, and Rulf lost an arm. For them to give so much to their enemies—it still leaves me speechless. Bae and I then took Rulf and Fort to the tavern for a thank-you drink, and as we talked about the gift, I came to realize just how wise my friend is. Because he is so large and has spent his life working in the fields, people believe him to be slow of mind. Perhaps a slowness of mind is beneficial: slowness gives a man time to think ahead. That's just what Fort was doing when he rounded up five goats. By providing for his former enemies' children, he is ensuring an end to the enmity. For what father could hate or fear a farmer who provides milk for his children?

Others in the tavern heard us as we talked, and on the next morning I woke to find five baskets on my lawn, filled with food, dishes, cloth and tools. There were even six tankards that I recognized from the tavern. There was no note—even now, so few in Ramsgate can read—and no one stood by to explain, but the size of the donation was in itself indication for its intended use: two small humans could not use all this.

When Bae and Morraine join the other ambassadors in Avonlea next week, they will be riding in a wagon driven by the local freighter, with baskets and a spinning wheel in the bed. Trotting alongside them will be five goats and two sheep, driven by a spotted dog that Luke raised from a pup.

Bae says surely no prince ever felt so rich.

Yes, many in Ramsgate still cry out for revenge against the giants. Many are angry with His Majesty for making peace instead of seeking "justice." But some have forgiven, and some, like Fort, are brave enough to make that forgiveness public knowledge. I would give my eyeteeth for courage like Fort's.

Rumple

* * *

Dearest Rumple,

What an emotional day! At the dawning of the day, out on the field where our soldiers practice for war, a huge tent was erected, a tent three times bigger than any we've ever had, because it had to accommodate our giant guests. Under the tent an array of tables and chairs were set up: four of the tables were three times as big as the rest, for they were meant to seat the giants. Winding in and out among the tables were footmen bearing pitchers of water and ale, decanters of wines and pots of tea; then behind them, more footmen bearing trays laden with bread, butter and jam; bowls of pea soup and leek soup; pork pot pies; fried oranges and dried apples.

As we do when we host a ball, we hired footmen, cooks and maids from neighboring estates: they arrived last night and went straight to work preparing this feast. It will be late tonight when they return to their homes, exhausted, but their pockets heavy. It is lucrative to work at the King's festivals; it is also a mark of distinction, to be handpicked by your lord or lady for this service. The nobles seek to outdo each other, setting their servants in competition, house against house: at the festivals you will hear one blueblood brag to another, "That's my man Giles, serving the wine. His Majesty's butler Ulrich appointed him the task, as there's no more knowledgeable sommelier in Aramore." Or "Those capons were prepared by my Tessie, from a secret recipe handed down through five generations of our cooks. Delectable, are they not?"

Their uniforms ironed, their boots shined, their backs stiff as a board, the footmen bent at the waist, balancing heavy trays with one gloved hand while the guests scooped up the delicacies. Their Majesties, (that's Father, Mother and me) seated on a dais, were served first, of course, and we sat with stiff backs too, our hands folded neatly in our laps as we waited for all to be served, and we spoke quietly to the guests on either side of us. There were fifty guests altogether, an uncomfortable mix of giants, nobles, and generals, and a visiting prince or two; over the course of the breakfast, which lasted four hours, we were entertained by poets, jugglers, musicians and (by my request) a storyteller.

You know me, Rumple. I am bored silly by these feasts. But this one was different, because we were welcoming the incoming ambassadors: sixteen male giants and fourteen females, all adults (two years from now, if this program has succeeded, the giants may send a family or two). And we were bidding farewell to the outgoing ambassadors: six soldiers, five farmers, a goatherd, a well-digger, and seven builders. I suppose I should say "former soldiers," since these men and women will be doing peacetime work, cutting roads, erecting houses, making shoes and clothes. As protocol dictates, these commoners were seated at the far end of the tent, safely out of range of the nobles, who were seated, in order of rank, at the King's table. My father violated protocol a bit by seating his three generals at his table, but the gray men have become used to this: my father has always honored his military thus.

At the second table were the giants. We have learned that, before the curse, most of them were farmers (you may remember Barric the beekeeper; he volunteered to come here, having been informed that we keep bees at Ravershire). One of them was a scribe, however, and I am anxious to meet with her; she will document this grand experiment. They call her not by her birth name, but by her title: _Mithmere_ , which means "memory" in the ancient language of the giants. I like the name; it sounds cheerful.

By protocol, even though we were honoring the ambassadors, the Royal Family was expected to remain seated, speaking only to those at our table. I could see the twinkle in my father's eye, however, so it didn't surprise me when, after the second course had been served, he rose and strode, in no uncertain steps, toward the giants' table, where he shook hands and spoke several long minutes with each, even the women (angonizingly long, for the nobles; I heard some of them whisper, debating whether this breach of manners should be permitted, though Dalibor put an end to it by snorting, "Did you expect otherwise from His Majesty? Remember who his father was.") He then sat with them (a footman had to scurry to bring an appropriately sized chair for him) and ate from a plate in his lap (since he couldn't reach the table) and chatted through the second course. Twice he rose to call the room to order and propose a toast to the health, courage and generosity of spirit of the volunteers, both giant and human.

As the final course (sliced cheeses, sugared almonds and honey-mustard eggs) was being served, he rose again and strolled over to our ambassadors' table. Here he sat for more than an hour, and drank many times to their health (too many, Mother complained when we retired for the evening). This gave me the opening I longed for: I too went to the giants' table and chatted a while, securing their promise to come and teach classes at my school (we'll have to meet outdoors, since the giants can't fit in the castle, but the children will love that). Mithmere and I, in consultation with Janshai, agreed to work together to write a history of the giants; I hope to distribute this book throughout the seven civilized nations when we've finished. I think all the peoples of the world should do the same, to foster understanding.

As my mother, chin up, gathered her skirts, brushed past the bluebloods and came to speak with the giants, I moved along to the human ambassadors' table. I made my rounds, but as soon as I could I came to Baelfire and Morraine. Your son leapt to his feet to fetch me a chair before the footman could blink twice—what a gentleman you've raised, Rumple. His manners, unlike those of the nobles, are _natural_. Morraine and I easily fell into conversation, until, too soon, my mother appeared by my side, asked to be introduced, then after a few moments of chitchat, urged me back to the head table, for it was time for my father's speech.

At noon, the army brought forth ten well-provisioned and well-packed wagons, as well as riding horses for our five departing soldiers (Bae showed off the saddle you had given him, as well as the sheep and the spinning wheel, and the goats from Forthworth and the dog from Lucas. Bae said he was quite moved, especially for the two sheep, because he remembers how long it took you to save up for them; and Morraine said she considers it an honor to have your wheel, and a sacred responsibility to take care of it so that someday their children can spin from it.) I had to turn away at this, because a Princess isn't supposed to cry in public (though as we waved goodbye to our intrepid volunteers, Mother and I and even Father had to blink away tears).

I tell you all this, Rumple, because I wanted to assure you (though I imagine you already know) that Father and Mother fully appreciate the sacrifice these volunteers and their families and their communities are making, in the name of peace. Their welfare will be our concern every moment of every day for the next two years, and when they return, we will call for a kingdom-wide day of celebration.

I mentioned Dalibor earlier: you will remember, he is Gaston's father, and he bore news that brought me some relief, though consternation: Gaston is engaged to marry Aurora, daughter of King Stephan of the Green Mountains. Aurora is a friend of mine, from our doll days, and I know her to be perceptive and outspoken: how she allowed herself to be conned by Gaston, I have no idea, though I suppose it has something to do with money and political alliance. I fear for her and as soon as I finish this letter, I'll go to Mother and ask to be permitted to visit Aurora. I aim to get to the bottom of this. I hope, in fact, to upend this vile plan.

If I may be a little bit selfish, or at least, protective of my people, Dalibor reported that Gaston will resign his commission next month so that he can take up a role in Stephan's court. I'm sure Darain will be glad to see the back of him.

I have a secret hope, Rumple. I'm sure you've guessed it. Sometime before our heroes return to Avonlea, I hope to visit them in their Maelyss home. I hope to see firsthand this brave new community. I hope Ely will remember me.

Yours,

Belle

P. S. Thank you for the rolls! Delicious!

* * *

Dear Belle,

Your letter stirs my emotions more than any novel could. I thank you and your parents for honoring the volunteer ambassadors with a grand feast. I'm sure Morraine's eyes were large as plates throughout the entire day, for she'd never seen a city before, let alone a royal festival. The last thing Bae said to me before they left was that he was confident in the success of this venture, because it's the right thing to do. He promised to represent His Majesty to the best of his ability and to make Ramsgate proud.

It was harder than ever to let him go after that.

Quiet as our neighborhood is, the village itself is shifting. With money raised by passing the hat from house to house, a friend of Bae's has gone off to study at the Academy Medicina. When he completes his classes, he will apprentice with a physician for three years, after which, Ramsgate will have its first doctor.

Rulf has left as well, for Bogamir, where he will work in an inn. He hopes to establish his own one day. Fort, Luke and I gather on Friday nights at the Hog's Head to commiserate. "The Old Farts Guild," Luke calls us.

A local carpenter has agreed to build a spinning wheel to my specifications; I am working on a design that I hope will take some of the strain off my leg and back. To raise money for this wheel, I am teaching reading to seven children, so I suppose you could say Ramsgate now has a school of sorts. The children come from all walks of life—the son of the tavern swamper attends, paying for his tuition by mucking out barns. This pleases me, to teach the children of laborers as well as those of artisans, but I am dismayed that there are no girls in my class. It has taken many years to convince Ramsgate of the value of literacy, but none yet, except Luke and Gretchen, have seen fit to educate their daughters. In fact, some are quite vocal in their opposition: give a girl a book and she'll never pick up a broom again, they cry. I can see reluctance in the eyes of the parents who send their boys to my class, a fear that education will separate them from their families as well as their peers, make them arrogant and ambitious, discontent. Make them want to follow Morraine, Bae, Borin and Rulf out of Ramsgate.

Luke, Fort and I understand this fear. We live it. Will our children, once educated to the world, come back to us? It's a hard thing to let our lambs go, but we ask ourselves, would it not be harder to tie them down? And we are proud to bursting of their bravery.

Thank you for the book on animal husbandry, which I shared with Fort. He immediately asked me to read him the chapter about tending wounds, for the new billy he bought has quite the temper and has given the nannies some grievous bites. As for me, I honed in on the chapter about the care of older animals. Midnight has slowed down in her old age, her eyesight dimming and her reflexes not as quick, so I had hoped for advice that might rejuvenate her, but the book had no information about cats. As she is the oldest cat in Ramsgate, no one here can offer guidance, so I am experimenting. I sewed a toy for her and I set aside an hour each day on chase-the-mouse games.

Would you select for me next some picture books suitable for children learning to read?

Rumple


	37. My Dear Belle

My dear Belle,

It is strange how the way we feel today can rewrite our memories.

Two hours' walk from Ramsgate is a port city called Longbough. As, I'm told, many sea towns are, it's raucous, crime- and rat-ridden, dank and dangerous, a city of taverns, where the residents, parasites to the pirates, smugglers and slavers that pass through on their ships, turn a blind eye to both the evil and the good. Gold is god there. Most men of Ramsgate visit there at least once in their lives to experience debauchery without guilt or legal hindrance; most come back again disappointed and broke. I went there once, in a fruitless attempt to rescue Milah from the pirate who I had been told had captured her. You know the story. What I have not told you is that I still sometimes dream about Longbough. Until last night, those dreams were always nightmares. Initially, they were dreams of loss and failure, though those feelings quickly dissipated as I came to realize Bae and I were, shockingly, happier without Milah. But the dreams didn't go away with this realization; they became instead evidence of my cowardice.

Last night that changed. It had been nearly a year since I last dreamt of Longbough. My life has been so full, I suppose, with friends and work and you, that the man I was in those days has come to seem foreign to me. But last night, I lay in the dark and thought about the future of this kingdom, standing as we are now on a crossroads, and as I fell asleep a vision of Longbough overtook me, but instead of dread or fear or humiliation, I felt—this is so strange, Belle—I felt anticipation. I saw myself standing on a dock, looking out over the ocean, as ships of every function drew in, each of them carrying crates stacked upon crates, and when those crates were lifted down to the dock and pried open, inside were iron chests, and when those chests were unlocked and opened, inside were shining stacks of gold coin. And as I shoved my hand into those coins, I thought, this is the future.

I was puzzled when I awoke. I had thought—hoped—that I'd put Longbough behind me. Why would I dream about it now, and as a place connected to my future? But then I remembered that just before I had fallen asleep, I had been mulling over Aramore's future and all the hopes you and your father have for it: a country dedicated to learning, science, art and peace. Hopes that require gold to make them real. Then I remembered that before I'd retired for the night, I had been reading a history of a seatown called Tariffa, and an idea its mayor had to raise money to support the town's needs.

I realized then my dream was literal. Belle, along the southern coast of Aramore are half-dozen seaports like Longbough. Is it not a shame that ships come and go hour after hour, taking advantage of these ports-getting rich thanks in part to these ports, and yet, the only Aramorians who benefit are tavern keepers and houses of ill repute? Should we not require those who use our shores to pay something for the privilege? The mayor of Tariffa thought so; he set a price upon the use of his town's docks. Should Aramore not do the same?

If we must tolerate the illicit activities that come with the shipping trade, can we not at least turn some of it to good? Let the pirates, smugglers and slavers help us to build roads and schools and physicians' clinics (and pay the salaries of constables who will jail the pirates, smugglers and slavers who get drunk, assault each other, rob good citizens and prey on the miseries of wives).

Yes, I admit it, there is some element of personal revenge in my proposal. But Belle, wouldn't it be sweet to walk down a freshly paved road to a newly built school, knowing all was done with taxes levied upon pirates?

Rumple

* * *

Dearest Rumple,

It is possible! It can be done! I brought your idea of shipping taxes to my father, and he consulted with our advisors, who found the idea legal, fair and sound (no small feat: they hardly _ever_ find anything to meet all three qualifications!). My father has sent representatives to Tariffa to learn more. But I do believe this dream of yours will come to reality, and from it will spring schools and clinics and much, much good.

My father has one question for you, Rumple: why do you not come to Avonlea and serve him as an advisor? A truly dedicated citizen would.

You are a leader, Rumple, though you don't see it. We need you in a seat at my father's Circle of Advisors. Aramore needs you.

Yours,

Belle

* * *

My dear Belle,

Your father's offer means more to me than I can express. It never ceases to amaze me that I have had the privilege of standing alongside my King on the edge of a battle (and what an inspiring figure he is, sword upraised, leading a charge-Belle, I have read the histories of your grandfather's wartime accomplishments, but I cannot imagine that, bold as he must have been, he could have been any more fearsome than your father was that day in Domin Canyon). It is thanks to you that I will always have that memory.

But dear one, you must realize that I don't have a rightful place at Ravershire. Ideas, I have, and I will gladly offer them, for whatever use you can make of them, but boldness like your grandfather's, leadership like your father's, bravery like yours-I have nothing of any of that, and I never will. Let's continue as we are, sweetheart, as confidants who encourage and inspire one another. If I were by your side, I would only disappoint you, and it would destroy me to lose your trust.

Rumple

* * *

Dearest Rumple,

You break my heart. And yet somehow, you give it back to me again, whole.

I thought love, if it's true, would be simple. It seems to be for my parents. But it's one big knot, isn't it.

My mother says sometimes love is a pillow that you can lay your dreams on, but sometimes it's a bloom of steel that must be pounded and heated and pounded some more. Is this our Age of Steel, Rumple? I certainly feel tested.

But I won't give up.

yours,

Belle

* * *

Dearest Rumple,

A most remarkable thing happened this afternoon. It was Petitions Day. My father sat aside, asking me to preside; it wasn't for my sake, he said—he already believes I have the experience and judgment. Rather, he wants me to start taking on a more visible public role so that the people will begin to shift their expectations for leadership toward me. When he told me this, I gasped, fearful that it meant he must be pulling back from his duties—and that, in turn, must mean that he's not feeling well. But he assured me he's "fit as a bull and twice as strong"; he wishes to spend more time with my mother "molding the gray men" in an effort to reduce the resistance to the treaty.

So I donned my ermine robe—I detest it; it's so hot and itchy, but it's kind of a tradition for Petitions Day—and I sat upon the throne, which is much too big for me—it was built, after all, for a man a full twelve inches taller than I. A footstool was brought in so my feet wouldn't dangle. Uncomfortable as the trappings were for me, I settled in quickly once the Petitions began. Entreaty after entreaty, all routine matters for which I needed little counsel. Rumple, it felt right to me. It felt natural. And I truly felt _useful_ , as I so seldom do when performing official duties, so many of which have consisted of little more than smiling and nodding. I really felt like a leader today.

But that was not the remarkable part of it. After the final Petition, as I stood and gathered my robes about me to walk away (and back to the comfort of my linen dress and my books), the Chamberlain called me back to hear one final appeal. The footmen swung the doors wide and suddenly the room was filled with people— _smiling_ people, farmers, craftsmen, merchants, educators, artists and clergy, and oh, to my even greater shock, I counted four nobles at the lead! Oh heavens, Rumple! And every one of them—the final count, according to the Chamberlain, was thirty-two!—carried something. Wheels of cheese and blocks of salt, loaves of bread, canned vegetables and dried fruits, and hammers and saws and nails and files and augers, rakes and hoes and shovels, bolts of cloth and spindles of yarn. I spotted a few books and toys too, and even a painting (a landscape of the Glass Mountains).

My Lord Bertram, Lord of Gillham, came to the fore. He carried a casket of wine from his own cellar, and he set this at my feet. This seemed to be an agreed-upon signal, for all the others set down their own burdens. I forgot decorum and exclaimed, "What is this, Bertram?"

"For the people of Maelyss, Your Highness," he answered, bowing. "Supplies to support our ambassadors there." This did not seem so surprising to me, so I merely nodded, ready to give my thanks, but then he continued, "And to assist the giants, because we know how difficult the first year is, in the settlement of a village."

My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the throne. For several long moments my mouth opened and closed soundlessly; I could find no words beyond a faint "thank you." My father stepped forward for the first time then; he scanned the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, before finally settling his gaze on Bertram. "Bertram, I see your organizational skills at work here, and I thank you." Then he raised his voice so all could hear: "The cream of Aramore's crop stands here today, literally and figuratively. I am deeply touched, but I am not surprised. My people, you do us proud. You represent the best of humanity: our productivity, our creativity, our inventiveness, our generosity and compassion, and most of all, foresight, for these gifts you bring today will come back to us tenfold, solidifying the bonds of friendship with this new nation. My people, you have my gratitude and my respect." And then he and my mother came down from the dais—I stumbled behind them—and walked among the donors, admiring the gifts and personally thanking the each giver.

As I recall the sight, I'm brushing away tears. I am so, so proud of our people. When you told me of Ramsgate's contribution, I was touched, but I thought it was an anomaly. Perhaps, I thought, Ramsgate's gifts had more to do with the town's affection for Bae and Morraine than for tender feelings for the giants. But now I know I was wrong, and I am delighted to be so. This is what being human means, I think. And I'm sure the giants will agree.

You should have been here to see this, Rumple. It would have thrilled you to the marrow. You really should have been here.

Yours,

Belle

* * *

My dear Belle,

As the town grows, so does the complexity of its problems, and I find my services as a contracts writer in increasing demand. With the extra income, I decided to build an extension onto my little house. That may seem wasteful, now that it's just me and Midnight here, but I am determined that whenever Bae and Morraine return to visit, they will not have to stay at the inn. And so I bought building supplies and made inquiries about hiring workers, but Fort and Luke put a quick end to that. "What, don't you trust us with a hammer?" Luke snorted at me, and I came to understand that they had expected to be asked to help me with the construction. I have never had someone I could ask such favors of, and now I find I have two who will gladly help. It's a remarkable thing, Belle, friendship is. Truly remarkable. I promise you, I will never take yours or theirs for granted.

Rumple

* * *

Dearest Rumple,

I've just come back from the Green Mountains, where I learned that Aurora's engagement to Gaston is indeed a matter of money. Aurora was placed between a rock and a hard place: let her kingdom suffer or marry a man she detests. Those who think royals have it easy would be shocked if they knew the reasons behind most royal marriages. But I introduced to Stephan the truth of Gaston, which gave His Majesty pause. I fear that this will not be the last marriage for money that Stephan tries to make for her, but at least, Aurora is spared from Gaston. She is a tender and naive girl, not at all clever or manipulative. Imagine what marriage to Gaston would have done to her. Imagine what Gaston would have done to her kingdom.

Upon learning this news, Gaston claimed to be heartbroken and insulted. Well, his heart mended fast because two days later he was engaged to a duchess.

yours,

Belle

* * *

Hello, Papa!

Papa, I know you share our letters with Belle and Fort, that's why I'm putting this separate page in with our letter. Please don't let anyone else see it. Not that it's anything bad! Just private. And embarrassing I guess. Anyway, remember that talk you and me had on the night before my wedding, about how to avoid pregnancy. Well, Raine and me have been doing like you said—I mean about the one thing, not the not sleeping together thing. We love each other after all! Anyway, sometimes we slip up and forget, and we're worried because, not that we don't want kids! Of course we do but not yet. I mean, we don't even have a house yet. And no doctors. I heard something about some plant that if a woman eats the seeds she can prevent pregnancy. You know a lot about plants, Papa. What can you tell me about those seeds?

Love you,

Bae

* * *

My dear Belle,

I am happy for your friend that she escaped those bear claws that Gaston calls fists. It's certain that the woman who's burdened with him will go to heaven, because she surely will have suffered her hell here on earth.

Thank you for sending me _An Essay on Ethics_. I am reading it slowly, as it is much to take in. You would be amused to see that this very scholarly book is having something of an impact on Ramsgate. To give me something to talk about when I visit the tavern (for I still find conversation uncomfortable with any but Luke and Fort), I have been distilling the book's ideas and then introducing them over ale. Whether farmer, carter, baker or miller, everyone has strong opinions on matters of right and wrong. The tavern keeper encourages these discussions because, as he says, the deeper the discussion, the freer the flow of drink. The new barmaid, hired to encourage greater consumption with her youthful flirtations and her comely figure, has surprised us all with her perceptive contributions to the conversation. Her inability to read doesn't hinder her ability to grasp complex concepts. I have offered to teach her to read, but have not succeeded in convincing her that education is not above her station. The interest with which she eyes the book suggests to me she will someday soon accept my offer.

And so our Fridays have become, thanks to your book, an exercise of the mind as well as the tankard-lifting arm. When I enter the Hog's Head, the customers greet me now with "What ho, Spinner, what's the topic tonight?" The book and these conversations have given me much to think about, which makes me feel Bae's absence a little less.

With your next letter, would you please send another, similar book? I would appreciate as well a book about the medicinal properties of plants, particularly those such as Queen Anne's lace that have proven effective in preventing fertility in humans.

I have had a letter from Morraine and Bae. They are well, though sleeping in a tent. Our ambassadors are working together, alongside some of the giants, to build houses. They began with houses for those who have children; Janshai and Ely were the first to be housed. They are erecting houses made of wattle and daub, rather than stone or wood, because the work goes faster. The materials, at least, are familiar to Bae, as it's what's used for most houses in Ramsgate, but it's _proportions_ that the humans struggle with. Everything must be three times the size that a human would build. The humans can't seem to get the hang of this—when Bae was constructing shutters for one of Janshai's windows, he forgot and built the first set much too small. Janshai merely suggested setting those shutters aside until they would begin the first human-sized house. Our ambassadors have learned to step down, letting the giants take the lead in drawing plans and measuring. In the time they've worked together, the humans and the giants have become more efficient and are now able to erect a four-room house in a week.

Bae enjoys the work; he has always enjoyed working outdoors and can work magic with a saw and a hammer. When he was a child he struggled to learn to spin, but he never had the patience. Morraine, on the other hand, does, and has taken over cloth-making duties for both the humans and the giants. They are excited about creating a new community. They are happy.

Rumple

* * *

Dear Sir,

Enclosed are the two books you requested.

Best wishes,

Belle

* * *

Dear Belle,

Thank you for the books. With this letter I am returning _An Essay on Ethics_. The scholars of Avonlea would find this amusing, I'm sure, but what they would call a "literary salon" seems to have sprung up at the Hog's Head. We gather on Friday evenings for a pint and a discussion. Initially we chose our topics from _Essay_. We spent three nights pondering over the question of whether there is such a thing as destiny, and if so, are we slaves to it. We spent a month debating whether man has a soul and what happens to it after death. What does man owe to his fellow man nearly led to a fistfight, as the richer among us felt that, having worked hard to earn what they have, they deserve to enjoy the fruits of their labors. It would not be fair, they argued, for them to be required to share with people who have not worked as hard. Only the intervention of the intrepid Tilda prevented bloodshed. Though small in stature, she commands the room when she speaks. With a wink and a word, she had two towering men shaking hands and apologizing to each other—then buying drinks for the house to compensate for the disturbance.

On the heels of this discussion came the announcement from His Grace that a school will be built in Ramsgate next year, and that for a small tuition, any child may attend. And then a fistfight at the tavern truly did break out, as Boleslaw, who owns the largest and most profitable farm in the territory, declared that he would refuse to pay the increased taxes that will pay for the school (although he had no problem with his children mingling with the offspring of the poor; after all, he mingles with us peasants every Friday at the tavern). The blacksmith did not take kindly to this refusal, and ere long the both of them were five coppers poorer for the table and chairs they broke during their fistfight.

This week, we plan a more civilized topic for our "salon": do gods exist and if so, must we obey them?

Rumple

* * *

My dear Belle,

As I grow older I find that my back and my ankle aren't able to tolerate long hours at the wheel. I am not able to spin as much as I used to, but with Bae gone, I need less income and my legal work provides sufficient for most of my needs. You would be pleased with another aspect of the legal work, Belle: it requires me to leave my house and go out into the village, talking to people. This aspect of the work has gotten no easier with practice. But I do enjoy the quieter aspects of the work, reading and learning about the law, and conceiving ways to apply it to everyday life.

It also fires my blood. For, the more I talk to people, the more I realize that the law is often inadequate, and the more compelled I feel to change it. Belle, it is not my place to question the Crown's decisions. I am uneducated, raised a peasant, the son of a criminal. I could not stand alongside your father's legal advisors. But I also know your father listens to the voice of the people, and with all the discussions you and I have had, I know you will permit me to share my opinions. Belle, there is much work that needs to be done to protect innocent lives. Your father has accomplished much by changing the law so that it protects children and animals against beatings, and the people applaud him for that, but more changes are needed. The more contracts I draw, the clearer that becomes.

This week, for instance, Enndolyn came to me for assistance. You will remember her husband as the maker of those wonderful rolls. Falk passed away suddenly, leaving behind no male children and thus no heir for his business. A half-brother has emerged, but during their lifetimes Falk had no involvement with him, nor wanted any, as their mutual father had deserted Falk and his mother to marry this other woman. The brother arrived in Ramsgate two weeks ago and immediately stormed into the bakery, demanding that Enndolyn pack her things and go, because the bakery now belonged to him. And by law, he is correct. It is wrong, Belle, wrong ethically (the philosopher-drinkers at the Hog's Head are in complete agreement on this) and wrong from a business sense, because this brother never kneaded an ounce of dough in his life, nor has he ever sold so much as a biscuit. He pushed Enndolyn from her home (at the back of the bakery) and deprived her of her livelihood. She is living now on Fort's farm, but she was not meant for farm work. In the short time he has been here, the brother has run the business to the ground. The entire village will pay the price for his stupidity and arrogance. Not only will we lose our only bakery, but we will lose one of the largest contributors to our tax base.

I have been attempting to negotiate a contract with the brother that will guarantee Enndolyn half the income from the bakery in return for her running it. As the brother is spending far more that he is taking in, I believe I will be successful (especially with Fort standing behind me as I negotiate). But this should not be necessary. I know you will agree with me, Belle, the law must be changed: widows must be permitted to inherit their husbands' property. Women must be permitted to own businesses.

Belle, is there in your library a book of the laws of lands more progressive than ours? With a precedent to follow, I believe you and I could write a convincing argument to present to your father's advisors. Shall we begin our research, Belle? Shall the Ogre Experts become activists?

Rumple

* * *

My dear Belle,

It has been two weeks since your last letter. I'm worried. Are you ill?

Rumple


	38. You've Come Such a Long Way

Wiping her hands on a towel, Esme steps out into the afternoon sun to relish a few moments of fresh air. It's a warm day, the castle windows are open and through them she can hear children reciting the alphabet in the classroom above. Out on the field, General Celvin is sharpening his swordfighting skills with General Darain. If she squints at the northern horizon, Esme can see curls of smoke rising from the chimneys of Ambassador Row. His Majesty and two advisors rode out there this morning to visit with the giants. Though their former enemy resides within easy striking distance, the castle is quiet and for most of its residents, the tension that hung over them during wartime has dissipated.

A familiar voice calls to her and she turns. Her mouth drops open in surprise, then forms a smile as the hunched figure limps into view. "Rumple!"

"Good day, Esme. Are you well?"

"I am. And you?" She shades her eyes, waiting for him; when he catches up to her, she takes his elbow and urges him inside. "You look tired. Come in for some buttermilk. I have a nice chicken on the spit. Are you hungry?"

"I am," he admits, permitting himself to be led into the kitchen. When he drops into a chair, he loses his grip on his cane and it clatters to the floor. She picks it up for him before fetching him a mug of buttermilk. "I'm growing too old, I fear, for such long walks, even on the newly paved roads His Majesty has built."

"You don't have your cart with you," she observes. "You didn't come to sell thread."

"No." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after downing the mug's contents. She hurries to refill it as he explains, "I came because I'm worried. Esme, is Belle all right? Is she injured? Ill?"

"No." Esme raises her eyebrows, then points to the ceiling. "Here, listen." They go quiet for a moment, enabling them to hear faint singing. "That's her. Her and the kids."

He nods and sinks back into his chair in relief. "She's well, then. Has she been away?"

"No."

"One of her sisters has been visiting, I suppose."

"No." Esme sets a plate of chicken before him. "Eat, Rumple. You look half-starved. Why are you asking so many questions about her?"

He bows his head as he picks up the knife and stares at the succulent chicken breast. "Hope, I suppose. I hoped for a cause. . . other than the obvious one."

Esme plops down in a chair across from him. "What are you talking about?"

He lifts a shoulder reluctantly. "She. . . has she mentioned me, lately?"

"Well, no. But she has been rather preoccupied, I suppose, between the school and the giants. Rumple, are you telling me you think she's forgotten you?"

He pokes at the chicken. "It would be a wise decision, if she did. If she found someone suitable. A knight, a prince from another land. A young army officer, perhaps."

Esme shoves the plate at him. "Eat, Rumple, before you faint from hunger. For ages now, it's been no secret here that she's fixed her cap for you. We who have known her all her life also know her stubbornness. She's decided upon you and will have no other."

He lowers his voice. "She won't answer my letters any more."

"Oh." Esme folds her arms to think the problem through. "Well, if she was angry at you, you'd certainly hear about it. That means she's hurt, then. You've done something or said something—I'm sure unintentional. Find out what it is and apologize."

"How can I, when she won't answer?"

"You're here. Go upstairs and ask her. She'll have no choice but to answer."

"I can't." He shakes his head. "I just can't. To hear her say she doesn't care for me any more, I couldn't stand it. That she doesn't want to see me ever again, or hear my voice—or that she's been burning my letters—"

"Nonsense. She's hurt, not angry. She'd have told you if she wanted quit of you." Esme takes the knife from his hand, saws off a slice of meat and spears it, then spins the knife handle around to offer it to him. "Here. Eat. I'm not saying anything else until you do."

He gapes at her, but at last gives way. As he chews she reflects, "She's been running around a lot, so she hasn't been spending as much time down here with Helena and me. But Peyton says she's been unusually quiet at dinner, and when her plate comes back to us for washing, we've noticed she's barely touched her food. Yes," Esme decides, "she's hurt. So as soon as you've finished your chicken, go upstairs and apologize."

"It's for the best." His voice drops even lower. "There is no future for us. I don't want to cause her unhappiness, but soon enough I'll fade from her memory."

"Don't be daft."

But before she can sway him, he clambers to his feet, using the table as a support as he fumbles for his cane. Indignant, she follows him to the yard. "What are you doing? Rumplestiltskin, come back here! What do you mean, you can't face her? That's coward talk! Come back here!"

"That's the problem, Esme," he throws back over his shoulder. "I'm a coward, and she deserves better."

The cook huffs as he limps through the yard toward the path to the main road. Throwing her hands into the air, she wheels about and runs up the back stairs.

* * *

"Rumplestiltskin!" she pants. "Rumplestiltskin, wait!"

"Belle!" He can't help himself; he seizes her waist as she throws herself at him. Her hair is flying in a dark cloud behind her and her eyes are wide with surprise and concern—and yes, hurt, but not anger. He holds her steady as she catches her breath. Before he can stop himself, his hand is smoothing the hair back from her face.

"You came—you came for me—"

"Why didn't you answer—"

"All this way. You walked all this way, because you thought I was sick—"

"My letters—you always answered, before, right away, but for the past two weeks, nothing—"

"I don't understand—"

"I don't understand."

Her face is red, with both exertion and embarrassment. "Another woman. You found someone else and it's serious, you intend to marry her, I thought—the book—"

"What? What book?"

"The plant book. The book about preventing. . . you know."

"Preventing? Another woman?" He stares in amazement.

"You must be planning on marrying, I thought, because you wanted the book—"

"No, there is no other woman. There could never be. It's you I love, I always will, only you. Another—?" As they catch their breath together, he's able to finally focus on her words. He begins to figure things out. "The book about plants—oh—about preventing pregnancy—I understand now—"

Belle is beginning to feel a little foolish, but her confusion is not clearing up. "Why else would you want such a book, if not-?"

"He asked me not to tell anyone else. Just—that's it's rather embarrassing to talk about, even between fathers and sons." He ducks his head, ashamed that he's broken Bae's confidence.

"Oooh." She steps back in his arms to peer up at him. "The book was for. . . not for you."

"No. I guess I should have explained it in my letter; it just didn't occur to me that you'd think I would—want it for myself. I love _you_ , no one else. Even if we can't be together."

She wrenches from his arms, then punches him in the chest, then grabs him in a tight hug. "You made me miserable! You could have told me—you didn't have to name names—but you left me to think the worst. I was miserable all this time. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, I couldn't even read. And I couldn't bear to write to you to ask what was happening, because if you'd told me you were marrying someone else, my heart would have shattered."

"I'm sorry, Belle, I'm so sorry. If I'd known what you were thinking, I'd have told you right away the book was for someone else. Please, will you forgive me?"

She gnaws on her lip. "It's my own fault, really. I should have asked instead of assuming. Sometimes I read too much between the lines. The apology is mine. Rumple, will you forgive me for jumping to conclusions?"

"We were both wrong." He kisses her forehead. "It was stupid on both our parts. Let's put this behind us and promise to be clearer with each other in the future."

She smiles at him in amazement. "You walked all this way, just because you thought I must be sick. Were you going to cook some chicken soup for me?" She links her arm through his and turns him back toward the castle.

"I do have a knack with chicken soup. Sometimes Bae would pretend to have a cold just so I'd cook for him. He wiped out my savings more than once, with that game of his." Rumple allows himself, once again, to be led into the kitchen.

"You've come such a long way. You should at least stay long enough to have a real conversation with me. Let's start with a bite to eat, and I'll have your chambers prepared for you." When he starts to protest, she grips his arm tighter. "One night, Rumple. Stay just one night. You need to rest before you make that long walk back. And my father will never forgive you if you hurry off before he has a chance to see you. He has so much news to share about the giants."

Esme is grinning at both of them as she sets another plate at the table. Belle continues, looking down at the floor, "And the laws—we really need to talk about the laws for inheritance and business ownership. I'm so ashamed that I acted so childish, letting my feelings get in the way of doing what I should. But I did show your letter to my parents and Father has been talking to his counselors, and now we'll all have the opportunity to talk it over." She leans over the table to pour a cup of buttermilk for Rumple. "One of the law scholars and I have been doing some research. Did you know, for example, that by law, the children are considered to belong to their father alone? The mother has no legal rights to them. If the father chooses, he can throw his wife out of the house with not a penny to her name and she will have no right to see her children. We need to talk about this."

"We will talk. I can stay a day or two, and we'll talk." Rumple digs into the chicken.

* * *

She follows him to the main road. In his pack are treats from Esme and Helena, as well as a book from Colette. Maurice offered to call for a carriage to drive him home, but Rumple found that unnecessary (and embarrassing, to ride into Ramsgate in a royal carriage); he will walk to the edge of town, where he will catch a ride with the freighter. The royal gardeners pause in their labors to wave as the Princess and the former Guardsman pass by, but the wave goes unseen, as Belle and Rumple stare at the clouds of dust their feet are kicking up.

"I don't know why you can't stay," she's mumbling. "At least, think about moving to Avonlea."

They've been through this argument time and again. It never changes, so he just doesn't answer.

"If it's because of what Dalibor said. . . ."

Rumple again refrains from answering.

"We didn't know he was coming. He certainly wasn't invited. He considers himself some sort of legal scholar, even though Father's never included him in any of the counseling sessions. Someone at the castle must've tipped him off that we talking about rewriting the inheritance laws—"

"I have responsibilities in Ramsgate. There's Enndolyn's situation, and the reading class, and I have friends there." The excuses sound lame even to him. "It's not Dalibor."

"You are just as qualified as anyone else. You proved that last night. You're just as well read any of the legal advisors, and certainly just as insightful and thoughtful and farsighted. Josef said so. And what you contributed to the discussion was just as important."

"It's not what Dalibor said, though nothing he said was untrue." He stops in the road and takes her hands in his, but he stares at her nose; he can't bear to look into her eyes. "It's what I didn't say. And I had no answer for him because I can't. I can't stand up for myself. I just can't." He draws in a deep breath to keep tears at bay. "When I was a child and my father boxed my ears and told me I was too stupid to learn his con games, and I wasn't worth the money it cost to feed me, all I could do was cower under the table. When the other kids pushed me into the dirt and pulled my hair and shoved mud in my mouth, all I could do was crawl away. When I got older, and taller, and stronger, even then, when the town scruffs would yank me into an alley and shove me down to steal whatever I had, and kick my ribs until I cried, all I could do was throw my arms over my head and try to hide under them. When I was drafted and the other soldiers schemed to throw me headfirst at the ogres, because all I was good for was ogre feed, all I could do was hang my head and tremble. And when I came home from the battlefield and Milah saw the result of my cowardice and informed me that she wished I had died rather than limp home a deserter, all I could do was let her run off to the arms of a pirate. So when Dalibor or the other nobles remind your father and your mother and you what I really am, it's just the truth, that's all, and I can't stand up to it. No amount of war medals, no praise from King's counselors—" He forces himself to look into her eyes. "Not even the love of the bravest, smartest woman in the world can change that. I am what I am, Belle. Even if you can accept that, even if you could be happy with me as I am, Aramore can't. This kingdom needs a prince who's strong enough to defend their queen against her hidden and overt enemies. Peace is too fragile to be left in the care of a coward."

"Rumple. . . ." They've come to the end of their words. All she can do is cry on his chest, and all he can do is let her.

"I'm your friend and your lover, always," he whispers into her hair before pulling away. "But I can't be your prince." He takes a step back. "Goodbye, Belle. I'll write to you as soon as get back to Ramsgate."

She wipes at her face with the back of her hand. "You'd better."

She's still standing there—hoping he'll change his mind?—when he's crested the hill.


	39. The Right Thing to Do

It's dark when he arrives home. Allowing his knapsack to tumble to the floor, he sinks into his rocking chair. He's too tired to build a fire, though he's hungry and craves a cup of tea. Resting his forehead against his hand, he blocks out his hunger—and his guilty conscience—though he's not sure if he's really guilty of anything. He's disappointed Belle, but better to disappoint her now than to allow their relationship to bloom and end up failing her and Aramore. He breaks away from the confusion by focusing on his surroundings. Compared to what it was ten years ago, he now lives in a proper home, one he can welcome guests into. Thanks to the bargains he's made over the years, he's now prepared for overnight guests, like Bae and Morraine: he can offer them privacy, in a bedroom separate from his own and the kitchen. He can offer them an actual bed. When the time comes that grandchildren arrive for a visit, they can sleep on Bae's old pallet.

Tomorrow he'll invite Lucas and Gretchen over for tea, proper tea, with honey, and rolls from the bakery. He can afford that, now. And he has an excuse: Morraine is returning for a few days, to celebrate her parents' anniversary. Bae won't be with her—there's still far too much work that must be completed in Maelyss before the fall comes—but a chance to visit with his daughter-in-law is almost as good.

Ten years ago, he never would have imagined he'd someday live in a comfortable house, one that a few of his fellow Ramsgaters envy. His life is so vastly different, now. And it all started with the cat that's rubbing her cheek against his pants leg. He pats his knee in invitation and she leaps, a bit more heavily than in her younger days, but still graceful. She kneads his knee, her claws pricking through the cloth to his skin, before dropping, just as tiredly as he had, into his lap. He strokes her ears. She's purring, welcoming him home, distracting him from his worries. Old friends, they are, with the emphasis right now on _old_.

He can't see much in the dim light, but gradually he becomes aware of a wet spot expanding on his trousers, beneath her chin, which rests on his knee. He supposes she's had a recent drink from the rain barrel. Bae used to find it so amusing to watch her leap onto the rim of the barrel, dig her claws into the wood and lean in precariously to reach the water—or during times of drought, whine about the barrel's emptiness. In her kitten days, she would bite at the water, but as a mature cat, she'd developed better manners. That's what she must have been doing, playing in the rain barrel, to cause her to drip onto his knee.

Except she's always wiped her whiskers dry after drinking.

He runs his hand down her spine toward her tail. It's her favorite way to be petted; she'll purr louder and arch her back into his hand to signal her approval. Except tonight she doesn't. Maybe she's tired. And she must have been crawling around in the bushes, because her fur is matted at the top of her back. As she's gotten older, she just hasn't been able to twist herself the way she used to, to wash with her tongue. He wonders if he tries to give her a bath, how strenuously will she object? She's never bit him, but then, he's never violated her rules for engagement.

He scratches under her chin, only to find that she's drooling.

Worried now, he lifts her—she's lost weight—from his lap, rises, turns around and sets her gently in the rocking chair. Then he makes his way in the dark to the table, where he lights a candle, then he takes advantage of the lit taper to start a fire in the hearth. He fills the kettle from the rain barrel and hooks it on the crane and gathers his tea things. These small tasks give him an excuse not to inspect the cat, but with light filling the room, he can't put it off any longer. With a sense of dread rising from the pit of his stomach, he lifts the half-asleep cat to his eye level and tips her back so he can see her chin, then returns her to the rocking chair. He watches her as she dozes off.

He's breathing a little harder now. His dread had foresight: there's a wet, dark patch under her jaw and drool leaking over her lips.

He paces his hovel as he waits for the water to boil, then he almost forgets about his tea until the kettle whistles. He wishes he had a book about cat health, or a neighbor with more experience than he has in the subject. He swings the crane away from the fire and retrieves his kettle.

His hand trembles as he pours the water into his teapot.

He paces again, wondering what he should do for her tonight. Is she in pain? But she's purring as she sleeps peacefully. Was she injured? Bitten by a snake, perhaps? He fetches a bit of cloth and lifts her chin to wash the dark patch. She yanks her head away in annoyance and goes back to sleep.

His tea forgotten, he scrounges up a bit of pork and cuts it into knife-thin slices. He watches her, expecting her to rouse herself at the odor of meat, but she doesn't stir. He sets the pork aside for later. He doesn't know what's causing the drooling, but protruding ribs, he understands. He remembers the days when nothing separated his own ribs from his skin. Maybe she's cleaned out the neighborhood of mice and needs a supplement.

He wishes he had someone to talk to about this.

Warmth spreads across his chest as he reflects that he does; he has two good friends, in fact, who won't belittle him for showing concern for a small, aged animal. If it weren't so late, he could visit either of them and they'd sympathize. He decides that first thing in the morning, he'll take the cat to Fort. The farmer has no experience with cats, but what he knows about dogs and livestock might provide some insight.

There's another good friend who'd sympathize, though she's rightfully annoyed with him now. She'll put her anger aside and offer whatever encouragement and support she can, when she learns of Midnight's illness. He finds a sheet of paper and sits down to write to Belle.

* * *

He wakes to find the cat asleep on his chest. She opens her eyes at the same time he does and stares at him; what she's thinking, he can't tell, never could. But she must be feeling better because she hops down from him and, tail raised, saunters off to the little door that he and Bae created for her, so many years ago. When she returns, he'll offer her the chopped pork and inspect her wound. But she must be feeling better; he's hopeful of it; perhaps they won't need Fort after all.

He sits up, swings his legs out of the bed and reaches for his cane. Through his window the sun is shining; from next door, he can smell eggs frying. He puts the kettle on and slices some bread for his breakfast, and as he sits as his table, waiting for the cat to return, he deliberates. All the signs indicate that she's feeling better, but through Bae, he's had enough experience with sickness to know that an apparent recovery is often followed by a relapse. The bread has no flavor in his mouth; he swallows because he knows he'll be useless if he has no energy.

If she were whining, like an injured dog would. . . if she were hiding in the woods, like a wounded deer would. . . if she were snapping and snarling, like a sick wolf would. . . but when she returns through her personal door, her tail is high and her ears are perked and she leaps gracefully onto the kitchen table—where she knows she's not allowed to be; she's acting naughty to get him to play with her. She sniffs at his bread and bends under his hand as he strokes her ears, and she's purring, damn it. How can she jump and play and purr like a kitten if she's so sick? Then she does something she's never done before: she presses her nose against his.

He's more confused than ever. He offers her a tiny slice of pork and she takes it between her teeth, delicately so that she doesn't accidentally bite him, and she sets it on the table and paws at it, as if she wants it to run away so she can give chase. She lifts her paw to her tongue and licks. Apparently deciding that the pork is digestible, she lowers her head and takes the slice into her mouth. He breathes more easily: if she eats, she must be feeling well.

She cocks her head to the side and attempts to chew on one side of her mouth. She swallows and he offers another piece, and she tries—valiantly she tries—but the pork falls out of her mouth before she can chew and her neck is damp with the drool leaking from her lips. She sniffs at the pork, she sniffs at his fingers, she wants to eat, she knows she needs to, but something in her mouth is causing her such pain that she can't bear to chew. Distressed, she paws at the pork, but she gives up too soon, hops down from the table and paws herself into the clothes cupboard.

It's clear now what he has to do. He steps out into the morning and sends word up through the neighbor network: he gives a message to Luke—"Tell Fort I need him to come"; Luke is on his way to the cobbler's, and the cobbler tells his wife, who's on her way to the tinker's, who in turn tells the blacksmith, who tells the freighter—and eventually word is carried all the way out to Fort's farm. But word comes back around again from Beryl: Fort has gone to Bogamir to see Rulf and won't be back for three days.

Leaning in his doorway, Rumple asks Luke miserably, "You know a bit about dogs. Would you mind taking a look at my sick cat?"

* * *

Rumple sits in his rocking chair (acquired in a deal with a furniture maker) before a crackling fire. Outside rain is falling, but his house is tight and warm. A kettle is heating on the brand-new stove in the new extension he's had built on his house. There's a proper bed in that extension, so Bae has a comfortable place to sleep when he comes to visit, and a curtained bed in the corner of this part of the house. It's replaced the pallet that Rumple slept on most of his life, and it's done wonders for his damaged ankle.

The rain doesn't bother him. He welcomes it; his garden is thriving, planted with some exotic foods, the seeds for which Bae carried back from King Maurice's castle. When he harvests, he will trade most of his produce to his neighbors in exchange for their more ordinary vegetables, potatoes and parsnips and the like. He eats pretty well (though not as well as the nobles do); he has a pair of solid boots, a heavy cloak, three unstained tunics and three hole-free pairs of trousers; he has nine books and a fishing pole and all the tools he needs to maintain his house. When the kettle boils he will have four canisters of tea to choose from, along with a slice of white bread. He has a seventeen-year-old son who's already making a good living in the King's Home Guard, and a daughter-in-law who's visiting next door today, and he has three friends he can count on, one of whom has just left.

And he has a cat. A ten-year-old black cat that sits in his lap each evening. They're two friends growing old together as their children are out changing the world, Rumple likes to muse with his friend Fort. The cat sleeps most of the time these days. He allows it; she's more than earned it.

He pets her in a single stroke from head to tail. That's how he's always rewarded her, never with table scraps. Never, because she had a job to do, clearing out the mice in the neighborhood. Never, until three weeks ago.

And now he would gladly get down on his knees with a slice of his best mutton between his fingers, if he could get her to eat that way. He'd do it gladly and has, but to no avail. Not that she won't try. She'll cock her head and stare at the tidbit, she'll take a hesitant step forward, but then she sits down again and makes a little cry. She seems to think she's disappointing him.

In the beginning of her illness, she retreated to the clothes cupboard where she had birthed her babies, five litters over her long lifetime. She'd sleep in the dark space for hours on end. He thought nothing of it: she was just aging, like he was.

After a few days he noticed she never went out hunting any more, and _that_ alarmed him. Midnight was the acknowledged Artemis of the Frontlands, the hunting queen of cats. She'd starve if she didn't hunt, and Bae would never forgive him if that happened. He'd never forgive himself. So he knelt at the cupboard and coaxed her out with chunks of mutton, fish or chicken. She crept out, studied the first chunk, then when her confusion faded she accepted it and crept back into the cupboard to eat. She seemed embarrassed. He chopped up more raw meat and left it in a bowl in the cupboard. When he came back in the morning, he counted the chunks: she'd taken only one more.

So he chopped the meat finer and cooked it, and another day passed with a full bowl. On the third day he sat on the floor, lifted her out of the cupboard, and cuddled her on his lap while he held a bite of chicken within reach of her mouth. Perhaps she was blind and that was why she hadn't gone hunting. Perhaps she couldn't smell any more and that was why she hadn't taken from the bowl. So he held the tidbit to her mouth. She tried, cocking her head and sniffing. Then she lowered her head with a throaty meow. He laid the meat aside and petted her as she lowered her head to his knee and fell asleep. Hours later, he paid for the privilege of sitting on the floor when he tried to stand up again and his ankle gave out.

They continued on this way, him feeding and watering her by hand, her taking an occasional bite just to please him. She'd toss her head as she chewed, and that led him to wonder if she had a tooth problem. He called in Fort, a farmer who knew more about "dosin'" animals than anyone in the village. While the cat whimpered on Rumple's lap, Fort pried her mouth open and peered inside, with Morraine holding a candle high to give him light.

Fort's inspection took a long time. When he withdrew and Morraine blew out the candle, Rumple asked, "A tooth?"

Fort shook his head. "She's lost a tooth, but that ain't the problem." He glanced at Morraine. "Maybe this ain't for young gals to hear."

"I love this cat," Morraine said stubbornly.

"She stays. What is it, Fort?"

"It's her tongue. I seen this before on one of my goats. The tongue's rotten."

"What does that mean?"

"It means she's dyin'. You been noticin' the droolin'? It hurts when she swallows."

"We'll cut it out. Get a sharp knife and cut out the part of the tongue that's rotten." But even as he suggested it, Rumple knew it was an awful idea.

"Rum. . . .the rot's spreading through her mouth. Won't be much longer now. Only thing is, starvin' and thirst will take her down before the rot will." Though a big man, Fort has a soft heart that he seldom lets others see. He showed it now, and not just because he sympathized with Rumple. He reached out and scratched the cat's ears. He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. "She did her work, Rum. Let her go."

"Not yet." Rumple shook his head fiercely. "Not yet."

Fort clasped a hand to Rumple's shoulder. "When you're ready." He walked slowly out into the morning. Morraine remained long enough to prepare a cup of tea and a plate of bread and cheese for Rumple, then she bade him a soft goodbye.

He's been sitting in his rocking chair ever since. His tea's gone cold and the bread is stale, but it doesn't seem right to eat when his old friend can't.

The sicker she gets, the more she purrs. He's learned that's a false hope. Or maybe it's her thank you.

There are other cats in the village, now. He could go out tomorrow and for a copper purchase one of her descendants, a black one or a white one or a yellow one. Or Bae could bring one home from the castle on his next visit. There are other cats, but none like Midnight.

"Not yet," he says to her. "Stay until Bae can come home and say goodbye."

But a pool of saliva has formed on his knee and he can feel only bones beneath her fur, which is matted. She used to take such pride in keeping herself clean. She's starving, yet her eyes are bright and she purrs and sometimes she gets bursts of energy that enable her to leap onto chairs, like the old days. And she's trying so hard, fighting the illness just as fiercely as she's battled mice all her life, and she deserves to live.

He doesn't know the right thing to do.

* * *

His body jerks, nearly lifting from his rocking chair, and he gasps as a hand grasps his shoulder. The cat, sleeping open-mouthed on his lap, jerks awake too and leaps down with a protest. She slinks around his chair to plant her butt firmly on the floor and stare up at the new arrival. Rumple shifts in his seat, then clambers to his feet, forgetting he needs his cane, and as soon as his right foot hits the floor, the pain shooting up his ankle makes him lose his balance. He stumbles but Belle catches and steadies him, then offers his cane.

"Belle! What are you doing here?" Then, realizing that sounds rude, he corrects himself. "I mean, why have—"

"Never mind, Rumple, I know what you meant." She looks him up and down, frankly assessing his health; from the slight crease that forms between her eyebrows, he realizes he hasn't passed muster. He supposes his age is showing. . .and it has been several days since he washed his hair. He winces an apology.

She, on the other hand, looks delightfully messy. Her hair, also unwashed, hangs loose on one side while the other is pinned up. Her clothes—the same dress she borrowed for Morraine and Bae's wedding; he suspects that means she's traveling incognito and therefore has come by public transport—are wrinkled and there's a small stain on the collar. The hem has come apart—probably her heel caught in it at some point; he will mend that for her, later. Maybe he'll take the opportunity to teach her to sew; it will be an excuse for them to sit close, his hands on hers.

He shakes the image from his mind. He's getting way ahead of himself. "Please." He takes her elbows, finally realizing she's carrying a portmanteau; he takes the case from her. "Be seated." He nods at the rocking chair. "Let me make you some tea. Are you hungry?" He sets the suitcase down near the front door. It's quite heavy; where is she traveling to, that she needs so much? Then again, she's a royal; she's used to changing her clothes several times a day. He grabs the kettle with the intention of taking it out to the rain barrel to fill, but he loses his train of thought as her eyes catch his. All he can do is stare.

"I've come to help," she says quietly, then she sinks to her knees on the floor and lifts the cat's chin to examine the wound. He now understands what it is she's come to help with.

She offers her open palm and Midnight rubs her head into it. After scratching the cat's ears a moment, Belle rocks back on her knees and sighs. "She's very sick, Rumple."

He stares down at the cat, who's staring at Belle. "But she's not in pain. . . I don't think. . . ." Belle doesn't argue, but her frown disagrees with his assessment. "She jumps around like she always has, she _purrs_ —" His voice catches.

Belle reaches out to take his hand.

He shudders as he admits, "She's skin and bones. I have to. . . ."

"Yes." Belle carries the cat to Rumple's bed and eases her onto a pillow. "You said your friend could give her something to. . . ."

"Yes. It would be gentle."

"When you're ready, then, we should. . ." She glances over her shoulder. "It's daylight."

He nods miserably. Then, realizing he's still holding the kettle, he stutters, "I should make you some tea—"

She shakes her head and comes into his arms. "Let me help."

He fights against the tightening of his chest and the burning in his eyes. "It's not just the cat—" He doesn't want her to lose respect for him. Losses have been stacking up against him; he's not sure he can handle one more, especially if it's Belle.

"I know," she says, pressing her cheek to his chest.

"But it is," he admits. "She's been—family."

"How far you've come, since that first day you took her in." Belle has heard the story, in bits and pieces, over the years of their correspondence.

"I owe her." He looks around at his home, remembering what it was on that first day, and remembering all that came after. So much of what he has and what he's become would not have happened if Midnight hadn't adopted him. He looks over at the cat and when she blinks back at him, he accepts the debt he owes her. "We need to go now."

"Yes."

From the mantle he takes down the traveling basket that he and Bae used to carry Midnight in, when they loaned her to the neighbors, so long ago. It's stuffed with Belle's letters now; he carefully sets those aside, then sets the basket on the table and lifts the cat into it. She meows a complaint but after sniffing at the cloth lining, remembers the basket and settles into it. Her head is too heavy for her to hold up; she rests it on her paws, her tail wrapped neatly around her fragile body. He strokes her, head to tail, and the bones jutting out from her skin reveal to him that there is no more time.

The basket in one hand and the cane in the other, he is unable to take Belle's hand, but she hooks it through his elbow and steps out into the road beside him. The walk to Fort's farm is too long and not long enough. Neither of them speaks as they walk, and the cat doesn't stir in her basket, but periodically Belle rubs her hand against his arm and rests her head against his shoulder.

"Rumplestiltskin." Beryl greets them at her kitchen door, props it open with a foot to allow them to enter. She nods at Belle, recognizing her from the wedding—or so she thinks. "Annabelle, mornin'."

"Actually, it's just Belle. My name is Belle." She murmurs.

"As in—Princess Belle?"

"I hope you'll forgive the lie. I didn't want to cause a stir at the wedding."

"'Course not." Beryl's matter-of-fact tone makes it clear that subject is closed. She glances into the basket, then tightens her mouth. "I'll get Fort. You folks sit down."

The kitchen is big, with a stone floor and proper stove and copper pots hanging on the wall. The pots are covered with a layer of dust; Beryl doesn't need them any more, now that it's just herself and Fort to feed. Rumple stares at those pots and thinks about the progress of a man's life, years and years of building up, and then so quickly to find, with his children gone and his own needs diminishing, what he's built now just collects dust. But perhaps that will change, too; perhaps someday, through Rulf, children will fill these rooms again and Beryl will need those pots.

Life is a wheel, with individual men and women merely riding it for a few short years. But their love, he believes, lives on after they're gone. If he closes his eyes, he believes he can feel the love lingering in these walls, just waiting to be called upon. He scratches the cat's ears, wondering if she knows that out there, her progeny wander the town, protecting it, and keeping something of her alive.

"Mornin', Rum. Miss Annabelle." Fort fills the kitchen with his bulk. He's bald and stoop-shouldered now, but he still walks big and his voice is as commanding as ever. He sets a basket of his own on the kitchen table. It contains a single small bottle filled with a brown fluid. His eyes blink as he faces Rumple, and Rumple realizes this is hard on him too. "If you want, I'll take her. If you want to wait here—"

"I should do it." But there's a question in Rumple's voice; he really wants to be talked out of this task. His hand trembles as he reaches into the basket to pet the cat one last time. He's listening for any of them—Fort, Belle, Beryl—to insist he should be exempt from the pain of this duty. And indeed, Belle makes a small sound in her throat, but suddenly something tightens in Rumple's chest and his hand stops shaking. "So she won't be afraid. I'll do it."

Fort nods. "Try to get her to take half this. It'll go easier, the more she can get down." He uncorks the bottle.

Rumple glances at Belle. "Maybe you'd rather wait in the sitting room."

She clutches his arm in answer. Tears have started down her cheeks.

"All right." He lifts the cat from the basket, settles her comfortably on his lap. He pets her, setting her at ease; she closes her eyes. But when he presses his fingers into her mouth to open it, she opens her eyes and watches him with a strange calmness. "Thank you," he whispers, "for all these years." She allows him to open her mouth. She doesn't struggle when he pushes the neck of the bottle past her teeth and tilts it up. She's still watching him as he pours the liquid over her shredded tongue and rubs her throat to cause her to swallow. She blinks once, then closes her eyes as he lowers her head to his lap. She's purring as he pets her. It's several minutes before he realizes she's stopped.

Belle cries into her hands.

"Thank you," he tells Fort. He lifts the cat back into her basket, then stands.

"I have a place," Fort jerks his head toward the back door. "Under a apple tree. Where I buried Pup. She's welcome there."

Rumple picks up the basket. "Thanks." He offers the crook of his arm to Belle. "Midnight would like that. She loved to tease dogs."

* * *

They bury the cat in a piece of blanket that Beryl provides; Fort digs the hole, since it's difficult for Rumple to control a shovel. Belle lays a wildflower over the mound. After a few moments of stillness, Beryl offers, "I'll make us some tea," but Rumple shakes his head. "We should go back. Belle must be tired, after coming such a long way, and I need to write to Bae."

"I could hitch up the wagon—"

Belle shakes her head. "Thank you, Fort, but I think the walk back will do us both some good."

Rumple holds out his hand and she takes it. They're both tired, but even more than rest, they need—he needs—privacy now in which to mourn. Slowly they make their way back to town.


	40. Strange, Strange World

_**A/N. This concludes the story. Thank you for reading it.**_

* * *

He's going through the motions of preparing a meal, though neither of them is really hungry. He catches himself glancing repeatedly at his pillow, which still bears a faint indention, and listening for the skitter of her paws as she takes off after a mouse.

Belle works silently alongside him, making tea and setting the table. The shadows under her eyes expose her exhaustion—it's been two days since she last slept. Her shoes and her portmanteau wait beside the door as an unspoken question that they must address, later. But not now, not until they've grieved together. As they seat themselves at the table and hunch over their plates, the silence settles over them. It's strangely easy. Not even Bae would have been comfortable in such a long silence, but Belle allows it, and Rumple is grateful for it. She's giving him the space to breathe.

They end up scraping most of the stew back into the pot, but they fill the kettle time and again, taking comfort in tea. He begins to talk quietly about matters that don't matter but that he knows she'll take interest in anyway. Every now and then, he'll slip and mention Midnight. She responds with news of her own, sometimes slipping in mentions of Athena. They share letters from Janshai and Bae, and they speculate on how big Ely might have grown by now.

By sundown, Belle's shoulders droop. She needs sleep more than she needs the supper he offers to prepare. "You should get some sleep," he suggests.

"I'm afraid so," she admits.

"I'll walk with you to the inn—"

She sets her hand atop his. "Let me stay here. You need me."

He stares at her hand, then into her eyes. The magnitude of what she's offering overwhelms him. If she stays, even if it's just until nightfall, she'll be risking her reputation. And worse. If he allows her to remain, even if it's just until nightfall, it will be too hard for her to leave, too hard for him to let her go.

"And I need you."

Those words pierce his skin like sewing needles and begin to mend the rips in his soul that not even Bae's unwavering love had ever reached. He needs to be needed. He needs to be allowed to need someone. If he lets her stay, it's dangerous and irreversible, but he needs her to stay. His eyes wide, he can't bring himself to say the words aloud—to ask her to throw away her reputation—but he nods.

"Please." She peers up at him, the most vulnerable he's even seen her. "I need you to say it. That you want me to stay."

She's studying him, so close he could kiss her if he merely lowered his head. He won't compromise her, of course—though there will be some in the village who assume he has, when it becomes common knowledge that an unmarried woman spent a night unchaperoned in an unmarried man's house. Those who are acquainted with him will scoff at the notion, especially when they cast eyes upon his female companion: too cowardly to touch her, some will sneer, while his friends will claim he's too respectful to despoil a lady—though they'll puzzle at his foolishness in subjecting Belle to gossip.

Though it's been a long time, he's not entirely naïve: the gaze she's fixed him in is not passionate. She's waiting for him to catch her meaning and she's watching for his reaction when he does. Pinned by her raw gaze, he wrenches the truth from the pile of fears it's buried under. "Please stay, Belle. Here, with me, tonight."

"Not for tonight. For always." As his mouth falls open and his eyes widen, she hastily adds, "If you'll have me." Then, stubbornly: "However you'll have me, as your wife or. . . no."

"As my. . ." He stands up, and she follows suit. "Belle. . . your parents?"

"My parents know. They're holding out hope for—for another outcome."

"That you'll give up on me?"

She smiles wryly. "They know better than that."

"That I'll send you back?"

"That we'll go back. Together."

He groans and draws back, away from her. "Belle, the _crown_. Have you abdicated?"

"Not yet. I left in haste, as soon as I read your letter about Midnight. I knew I couldn't tarry."

"But the people need—"

"The people need a leader like me, but you need _me_."

"Belle, you'd be renouncing who you were born to be."

"No," she persists. "I've found who I was born to be."

"But the throne—"

"Will survive without me. Monarchs are born, live and die, but the people go on."

"But your whole life has been in preparation for you to lead."

"What good would I be in Avonlea when my heart is here with you?" She knots her hands in her skirt. "Don't send me away, Rumple. You'll break my heart, and your own too."

He stares at her in shock. He's met many brave women in his life, not the least of them, those who've thrown in their lot in this village, but Belle is the most daring of them all. He has no doubt she could take on the entire Council of Nobles singlehanded—which she would have to do, if he fulfilled her parents' wish and returned to Avonlea with her. His hands begin to tremble at the thought. But her too-truthful blue eyes pierce his defenses and he finds himself, despite himself, admitting, "I can't send you away."

She sighs her relief. "I know it's a lot to put on you, all at once, especially after this morning. I don't expect any more of an answer yet. Just hold me." She approaches and he can't not offer his embrace.

"Ah, Belle, are we doing the right thing?" he whispers into her hair, but she's snuggled so tight against his chest and breathing so peacefully that he suspects she hasn't heard him.

After a long and, for her, comfortable silence, she lifts her head. "Rest with me." She rises holds out her hand. She leads him to his bed and takes him into her arms as soon as they lie down. Her head against his chest, she clutches his shoulder; his hands slide around her waist. She breathes slowly, and the rise and fall of her body against his comforts him like the blanket under which they've sought refuge. She wants nothing more from him than rest, and that's what he most needs right now too. Problems will wait for the hard light of day. He presses his cheek to her hair and closes his eyes.

* * *

" _On your feet for the captain."_

 _He fumbles for his walking stick, then for his footing. Even standing, hunch-shouldered, he's staring at a pair of freshly polished boots. Though he can't bear to lift his eyes, he can hear a smug grin in the feigned courtesy with which the pirate welcomes him aboard ship. "_ _Well, where are my manners? We haven't been formally introduced. Killian Jones. Now, what are you doing aboard my ship?"_

 _Rumplestiltskin stutters. He's had to ask many, many humiliating favors in his lifetime, from begging for food from his own father to pleading with drunkards not to beat him any more, but this is different, more dangerous. The pirate hasn't taken Rumple's purse; he's taken his wife. "Y-y-you have my wife."_

 _The pirate is twice as tall and half as old as Rumple, and he's never had to walk with a cane. He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the ship's railing. "I've had many a man's wife."_

" _No. You see, we have a son and he needs his mother." It's pointless; Rumple knows this. He can spot a bully a mile away, and this handsome young swag is the king of bullies. But he can't walk away; he can't leave his wife to the mercy of these soulless creatures. He throws a quick glance over his shoulder at Jones' crew: one of them, perhaps, will be moved to intervene, for the sake of a child._

 _Jones continues to toss off veiled threats as if they were peanuts in a tavern. "You see, I have a ship full of men that need companionship."_

 _Rumple gasps at the implication. The back of his neck prickles. "I'm begging you, please let her go."_

 _He catches a sharp glance from the corner of Jones' eye toward the chortling crew. They both know how tenuous a bully's reign can be. If Jones shows the slightest hesitation or distaste for the game, his followers will begin to doubt him, and eventually question him, and one of them will rise against him to take his crown. There will be no mercy from the captain—Jones is incapable of that—but he could be undermined, in time, and if his prisoner can survive long enough, she may escape in the uproar. Rumple thinks he catches flash of uncertainty, or at least discomfort, in the pirate's eyes, though the man's relaxed posture belies any nervousness. Nevertheless, Jones moves to bring the game to a quick end. "I'm not much for bartering. That said, I do consider myself an honorable man, a man with a code. So if you truly want your wife back. . . . " He throws a sword at Rumple's feet. "All you have to do is take her."_

 _Rumple stares at the metal, blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the blade._

 _A sword suddenly appears in Jones' heavily jeweled hand. He pokes the point at Rumple's throat, drawing a bead of blood. "_ _Never been in a duel before, I take it? Well, it's quite simple, really. The pointy end goes in the other guy. Go on. Pick it up."_

 _Rumple shudders, his breath coming hard and fast. He manages to pry his stare from the fallen sword to the one at his throat. He listens to the men surrounding them, praying for a protest from one of them. Where is this so-called "code of honor" Jones claims to have? Rumple's hands close into fists._

 _Someone guffaws._

 _Jones claims his victory, pricking Rumple's nose with his sword. "_ _A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets."_

" _Please—"_

 _A woman's shriek interrupts Rumple's plea. He raises his eyes, past the pirate's leather-clad shoulder to the forecastle deck, where a small form bound in ropes and strips from her own skirts struggles against dirty, grappling hands. While two men pin her arms behind her, a third pries her mouth open and pours rum into it. They're all laughing and taunting her with vivid descriptions of what they'll do with her, after the captain has had his turn. She tosses her head and manages to bite the fingers in her mouth. When the rum-douser howls, shaking his wounded hand, she screams, "Rumple! Help me!"_

 _Something snaps in his chest. Unaware of his own movements, he watches the pirate king's eyes widen with amazement as a sword point is thrust into his mouth. "Best not move, dearie," he warns the pretty pirate. "Lest I cut off your cowardly tongue." Jones attempts to step back, but Rumple presses an elbow into his chest. From the corner of his eye, he watches the crewmen warily. They aren't moving, nor do they appear to be particularly disturbed by the change in their master's status. Some of them even appear amused._

 _Rumple suddenly grins and barks over his shoulder. "You!" He's calling out a fellow in red wool cap. He never takes his eyes off the captain. "What's your name?"_

 _Names, he's heard somewhere, have power, and he's taking it. "S-s-smee," the little man provides._

" _Smee. You're small like me. Does he insult you?_ _Does he call you Runt and make you fetch and carry for him because you aren't strong enough to haul ropes and tie down sails?"_

" _Yeah. . . ." Smee's voice darkens._

" _You!" Rumple snaps at a lame man. "What's your name?"_

" _They call me Gimpy, but my name is Walhem."_

" _You're disabled, like me. Does he mock the way you walk, shove you if you're too slow?"_

" _Yeah. . . " Walhem raises his cane as a weapon._

 _From the corner of his eye, Rumple observes Belle smashing her boot heel into one of her captors' shins, then thrusting her palm into another's nose. As blood spurts, the men release her and she sneers at them._

" _You! What's your name?" He barks at an old man._

" _Me? Ewan."_

" _You're old, like me. Does he threaten to dangle you as shark bait because that's all you're good for any more? Make you scrub his chamber pot just to keep you alive?"_

" _Yeah. . . ." Ewan clacks his wooden teeth._

 _Rumple pushes his face closer to Jones', blows his breath into the pirate's face. "Then join me, every one of you that's ever been kicked or slapped or shoved or threatened by this coward. Stand with me, the lot of you, and without a single sword stroke we'll take over this ship and reclaim what he took from us. Draw your daggers and your swords, and he'll be the shark bait today!"_

" _So you can be captain and bully us like he does?" Walhem challenges._

" _The ship is yours; all I want is to take my wife and leave. Stand with me and choose your own captain."_

" _Who are you, that we should follow you?" Ewan demands._

 _It's only fair, considering Rumple required their names. For just a moment he considers lying, lest these ruffians may have heard of Rumplestiltskin the Runner, but as recent memory after recent memory flashes through his mind, his chest swells and his shoulders straighten and the reply bursts forward, pushed by pride: "I am Rumplestiltskin, scribe of Ramsgate, inventor of the Spinner's Whistle, Lieutenant in His Majesty's Home Guard, veteran of the Battle of Domin Canyon, recipient of the Medal of Courage, father of Private Baelfire of the Avonlea Brigade, and defender and beloved of Her Highness Princess Belle, whom your moron of a leader has foolishly taken captive!" Only about half of those titles he came by honestly, but the rest, he knows will impress his listeners nonetheless. That's enough, that they believe he's all he claims to be; whether he wholly believes in himself doesn't matter._

 _Jones flinches and his jaw moves as if he would apologize, if he could speak around the sword stuffed into his mouth. Huzzahs start with Jones' bullying victims but quickly infect the entire crew, and when Ewan yanks the sword dangling from Jones' hand and Walhem snatches the dagger from Jones' belt, the rest of the crew presses forward, raising everything from swords to fishing knives to mop handles._

 _Rumple steps back as Belle comes flying into his arms and the crewmen surround their former captain. He slices the lobe off Jones' left ear ("To remember me by, thief") then shouts to the crew, "He's all yours, men!"_

* * *

"Stand with me."

Belle is shaking his shoulder. "Rumple? What's wrong?"

"Shark bait."

"Rumple, you're having a nightmare. Wake up!"

He attempts to slash out with his sword, but she's pinning his hand. He sits up and pushes his eyes open. "What?"

She releases his hand to pet his hair. "You were having a nightmare. You almost hit me."

"Not a nightmare," he mumbles, rubbing his face. "Sorry, sweetheart."

"It's all right." She scoots out of bed and patters over to the water bucket. She brings back a dipperful of cold water that revives him with the first swallow. "Do you want to talk about it? I take it it had something to do with me. You were calling my name."

"Yes." He will tell her about it; there will be no secrets between them any more. But first, something emerges from his memory and grabs at it because his dream has signaled its importance. "Belle, I read something in the laws. . . . The King has the right to grant land and titles to commoners who have done great service to the kingdom, yes?"

"I think so. Yes," she frowns to remember. "My grandfather wrote that law, so he could reward some of his war cronies."

Rumple ticks off the names on the fingers of his right hand. "Darain. Celvin. Carac." He spreads the fingers of his left hand, then pulls each one down as he names names. "Dalibor. Ermo. Amic."

"My father's generals. And three of my father's worst detractors," Belle summarizes.

Rumple smiles triumphantly. " _Lord_ Darain. _Lord_ Celvin. _Lord_ Carac—" He smacks his right hand over the left.

Belle grabs his hands. "I get it! Three strong supporters promoted to the Council of Nobles—"

"Three brilliant strategists—"

"Three war heroes fresh off the battlefield. No one would challenge their promotion."

"Or challenge _them_ when they stand up for your father—or you."

"Yes. . . " she sits back, daydreaming. "The scales would be balanced. And with you as the Prince Consort, speaking as an authority on the law. . . ."

A cloud of doubt drifts over his image of a reconstituted Council, but there's a power rising from his gut, filling his chest, consuming his vision, and he finds himself nodding. Their Royal Highnesses and the generals will vouch for him against his detractors, and it will be enough that the younger nobles, those who haven't heard the old rumors, believe Rumplestiltskin is all his supporters claim him to be.

"We can do this," Belle is trembling with excitement. "Rumple, we can do this."

"I can." The words come out of his mouth unbidden. "I can do this." Then he forces himself to focus, prod his mind for doubts, search his heart for fear. The answer comes back and he voices it: "It's almost sunrise. We need to go to Fort's."

She's puzzled now. "Fort's?"

"He'll loan us a wagon." He rises and holds out a hand to her. She takes it, but she's still a step behind until he explains, "We need to get to Avonlea, and I will not have my bride walking so far."

She dimples. "Are you going to propose, then, or should I?"

"Oh!" He hunts around for his cane and discovers it's hooked on the back of the rocking chair. With an annoyed growl, he pulls Belle toward the chair, seats her in it, then leans on the arm of the chair to lower himself to one knee. "Belle of Avonlea. . . I'm no nobleman, but I am an officer of His Majesty's Home Guard, an ogre expert, a talented spinner and a good father, and I vow to you I'll be a good husband, if you'll have me. Will you, sweetheart? Will you have me?"

"I most certainly will." She dives at him, bowling him over. As they tumble onto the floor, she kisses him and he kisses her back just as enthusiastically. "Let's have two weddings, A private one here, for your friends and my parents and Bae and Morraine to attend—"

"And one at Ravershire, For the court and the army and the giants to attend."

"Janshai and Ely—"

"And for the gray men to see their new Prince, in all his finery."

"Uhm, can I wear my Guard uniform? Ruffles just aren't my style."

"You will wear your uniform, with your new title and your medal, and most importantly, with all the authority you've earned by virtue of your intelligence, your inventiveness, your devotion to the people," she watches him closely, "and your courage, Rumplestiltskin." When he doesn't flinch, she rewards him with a kiss. "Your courage."

He wants to correct her: he'll never be able to stand up to the gray men the way he stood up to the pirates in his dream. He'll never be Belle's equal in heroism. But perhaps he can make up in cleverness what he lacks in daring, and perhaps if he tells himself often enough he's brave, he can change his mind.

"I must be courageous," he allows, "or you wouldn't have chosen me."

* * *

"'Course you can borrow my wagon!" Fort slaps him on the back so hard he nearly topples over, until the big man grabs his arm to steady him. "So you gonna go ask her papa's permission?"

"And her mama's," Rumple adds.

"That permission was already granted, ages ago," Belle murmurs. "But we do think they should be the first—well, the _second_ to know. If you don't mind keeping our secret? My papa will want to make a formal announcement."

"Sure," Fort agrees. "I would too, if I had a daughter. Which wedding you gonna do first?"

"Well, state weddings take a great deal of planning, and I've already waited long enough," Belle pretends to huff. "So as soon as Bae can get back from Maelyss, we'll marry here. The Avonlea wedding, I suppose, will come in the fall."

"Two weddings," Beryl muses. "I never heard of such."

"You'll be good and bound then, eh?" Fort chuckles. "You got time for me to buy you a round at the Boar before you leave?"

Rumple shakes his head. "If we leave now, we can make the inn at Gullygate by sundown."

"And Avonlea by noon tomorrow," Belle finishes.

"The drinks'll keep until you get back then. Come on, let's get the wagon hitched up so you two can get hitched." Fort thinks his pun funny enough to repeat it as he leads them toward the barn. Their progress across the yard, however, is interrupted by two large brown dogs dashing past, barking and yapping and making a beeline for the fence that now differentiates Fort's property from Rowntree's, thanks to Rumple's contract. "Boys!" Fort claps his hands and the dogs look his way, but they keep running toward the fence. "Pup's sons," he explains. "Best of her last litter. They chased off a wolf last week."

"What are they after now?" Belle shades her eyes. "Is that a wolf?"

Fort shakes his shaggy head as the three of them follow the brown dogs. "Nah, see on the other side of the fence? It's a stray that's been hangin' around here, couple of weeks now. I asked: he don't belong to Rowntree." As they approach, the brown dogs drop their voices to growls, surrendering the job of chasing off the stray to their master. At the fence now, Rumple can make out a small black dog, its gray muzzle lowered to the ground, its floppy ears heavy with burrs. "He'll run off for a day or two, then come back beggin' for food. Wants to be allowed in the pack, I s'ppose, but my boys won't have nothin' to do with him."

Rumple bends enough that he can see through the slats in the fence, and Belle crouches to poke her fingers through, urging the dog to come closer. The black dog has a scar across its nose and patches of fur missing from previous fights. Its ribs protrude from its matted fur. Rumple starts to suggest that they continue on to the barn—they have a long road ahead—but he's stopped cold when he spies the mutt's right back leg. It's shorter than the other legs, and twisted. In the instant of that discovery, he knows the right thing to do.

"He's starved," Belle observes.

Rumple leans his cane against the fence. "Can he be brought around?"

"Huh?" Fort scratches his chin.

"With food and a flea bath, can he live?"

"Well, yeah, I s'pose, He'd be worthless as a sheep dog, with that deformed leg. No good for protection either; too timid. A worm would scare him."

Rumple sets his weak foot on the first rung of the fence. He teeters there, gripping the wood, trying to get balanced so he can bring his good foot up, but Belle intervenes. "Let me." In a flash she's raised her skirts just enough to get them out of the way, then she's up and over the fence and crouching at the mutt's side, offering her open palm. To everyone's surprise, the dog doesn't hesitate; he presses his nose into her hand and asks to have his ears scratched. A small cry accompanies Belle's realization: "He's tame. Someone owned him at one time."

"And love starved," Rumple surmises.

Belle fulfills the dog's request for petting, then she stands and slips her arms under its body. "Light as a feather," she complains as she lifts the dog above her head. Fort reaches across the fence and takes the creature from her, setting it down gently in the grass. He wipes his hands on his trousers as soon as he's released the dog. "Need to wash your hands, Belle. This old boy's got fleas."

"We'll get him a bath right quick, then." She throws her leg over the fence and gracefully drops down to the other side. With a glance at Rumple, she comments, "We can spare the time, can't we?"

"Come, boy." Rumple picks up his cane, snaps his fingers and starts for the barn, with the mutt trotting along beside him.

"You're takin' that—" Beryl blinks. "All right. Tub's behind the barn. I'll get the flea dip and the scrub brush."

Fort shakes his head in disbelief, but minds his wife's implied command and directs his guests—including the mutt—toward the wash tub that they use for their own dogs. As he fetches a pair of pails to carry water to the tub, he's still shaking his head and muttering, "If I'd a knowed you like dogs, I woulda saved you one of Pup's litter."

"But it's this dog we want, Fort," Belle smiles. She glances at Rumple, and from his determined expression she knows she doesn't have to ask if he's sure. She takes his hand. "A family needs a pet."

He finishes her thought. "And we're a family now." The dog grins up at him and doesn't struggle when Rumple lifts him, one-handed, into the tub of water.

"We are," Belle exclaims. "We really are." She scoops water onto the dog's back. He lowers his head, humble and embarrassed, but she coos to him and raises his chin. "Come now, stand proud, Sir Dog, you're a royal now."

Rumple reaches for the flea dip that Beryl's brought over. "And let no gray man say otherwise, or they'll have Prince Rumplestiltskin to answer to." He clicks his tongue as he lowers himself to one side of the tub, with Belle and her scrub brush on the other. It feels vaguely familiar. . . .

"Prince Rumplestiltskin," he mutters. "What a strange, strange world."


End file.
